Veritas, Aequitas
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which the brothers reunite with a friend, and the past comes back with a fury. Set in the 'verse of Zatnikatel's The Woods and Killing Moon. Set in mid-season 3, PRIOR to Dean's descent. Rated for language, gore, violence.
1. Chapter 1

_First order of business - This story is set in the 'verse of Zatnikatel's opus magnus, The Woods and Killing Moon. If you've not read them, then WTF are you doing here? She's a much better writer than I, head that way and read._

_Secondly - This is set in mid-season 3, post-deal, pre-descent. The boys are still searching for a way out of Dean's deal._

_.net/s/4954718/1/The_Woods_are_Lonely_Dark_and_Deep_

_.net/s/5231870/1/The_Killing_Moon_

_Also, I have no beta. So if there are any mistakes, I was probably drunk, and I have no one to catch me on my errors. Also, I don't own jack._

_Finally, I answer all reviews at my Livejournal site. So there you go, a shameless plea for traffic over there. :P Please review, it feeds me! _

* * *

**_The past is never dead. It's not even past._**

**_-William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun_**

_It watches as she sleeps. Watches as unconsciousness smooths away the lines of age and weariness and worry, and youth returns to a face long past it._

_Watches, waits. Thinks of what came before. What was lost._

_It thinks of what could have been. Should have been. If not for the actions, or inactions, of a precious few. Betrayals._

_It thinks of the unfairness, the pain, the unjustness of it all. The failure. _

_It swears that there will be blood. There will be penance paid for all of it. The streets will run red with the payment for past wrongs. The guilty will be brought to account._

_There will be justice._

Dean woke with a start as the Impala drifted over the rumble strips into the plowed snow that was piled on the shoulder of the highway. He overcorrected wildly, swerving back into the driving lane and narrowly avoiding a huge patch of gleaming black ice, his arm instinctively shooting out and bracing Sam across the chest. "Holy shit!" yelped Sam as he woke, and he clutched at Dean's hand, digging his fingernails into the flesh of his palm. "What the fuck?!"

The car skidded to a stop sideways, tires crunching in the frozen snow that had drifted across the pavement. Dean took a deep, quivering breath, swallowing down the surge of adrenaline that had gripped his stomach and jumpstarted his heart, then shook his head, blinking away the cobwebs of fatigue that were strung across his brain. Realizing he was still bracing Sam against the seat, he yanked his arm away and scrubbed it across his face.

"Fell asleep," he muttered, examining the red half crescents that Sam's nails had left in the skin of his hand. "Fuckin' exhausted." He rolled a shoulder up to his ear, cracking out the kinks in his neck. They'd just finished a helluva hunt, a blood-and-guts throwdown that left Sam with a broken pinky finger and a hugely colorful shiner, not to mention a piss-poor mood that left Dean relieved when he finally fell asleep and shut the hell up about it. Dean fared slightly better, with only a few ugly bruises and sore muscles to show for the meeting. More than anything else he felt a crushing fatigue. _Fuckin' creepy crawlies, always with the violence. _

He glanced blearily at his watch. _2 fuckin' AM. Can't remember the last time he slept…_Sam had been dragging him from town to town, searching, checking and double-checking, sussing out each and every clue that might lead them to an answer, to salvation. This hunt was no different than all those before; another lead on a deal-breaker, another dead end, with the added bonus of an asswhooping included, compliments of the house. To be followed shortly by another round of mopey-Sam to round out the failure. _Sam, with his puppy eyes and his trembling lower lip and his wibbly chin…fuckin' girl, drivin' me nuts, needs a punch in the throat._

"You want me to drive?" Sam knuckled the sleep from his eyes and squinted out the windshield into the darkness. "Where are we?"

"We're a little ways out of Holman." Dean bit down around a yawn.

"Holman," Sam repeated. Leaning his head against the back of the seat, he closed his eyes, but after a split second he opened them again and frowned. "Wait, isn't Hibbing near Holman?" He poked his tongue out, prodded at the split in the skin of his lower lip that he had gotten as a remembrance of their brawl with the beastie.

Dean couldn't stop another yawn, so he succumbed, nearly dislocating his jaw, and shrugged, but then the light bulb clicked on and a slow smile crept over his face. He glanced slyly at Sam. "Yes, I do believe it is, Samuel."

Sam grinned despite himself, suddenly unable to hold onto his general grouchiness. "Think a soft bed with some clean sheets could be found?" He could barely contain a chortle of delight at the mere thought of it. _Cushy mattress, extra pillows, sheets that smell like detergent instead of ass and sex, fluffy towels that you can't see your own hand through, enough hot water to take an actual shower instead of a two-minute-marathon scrubdown…bliss…_

"Maybe even someone to share it with," leered Dean in return. But the dirty sneer didn't last, just softened into a slight smile. All his weariness was suddenly gone, and there remained only a warm glow of anticipation at the thought of a reunion with an old friend, a comrade in arms, and, in more than one way, a savior.

Sam snorted. "God, always such a gentleman." He faked a shudder at the memory of hearing Dean's indiscretion, as reenacted by a wendigo in a far-gone forest. It seemed to be lifetimes ago, but even that wasn't long enough, as far as Sam was concerned. _Brain needs a boiling hot bath with bleach. And Ajax. _"Try not to use the headboard so much this time, huh?"

Dean smirked and swatted Sam in the shoulder. After a quick glance in his rearview, he swung a hard u-turn, fishtailing in the snow and bumping across the median. But as they roared back eastward, Sam's face sobered and a frown furrowed his brow. "Um." Dean glanced at him. "You sure you're up for this?"

Dean looked back at the road and put his thumb to his mouth to gnaw at a hangnail. "What do you mean?"

"Hibbing hasn't exactly been good to you, you know." Sam watched Dean out of the corner of his eye, knowing that direct eye-contact would mean an immediate end to any further conversation. It was a bit like approaching a wild animal…quiet voice, no eye contact, no sudden movements. "Don't think anything good ever came out of that town for us."

"Pssh." Dean pooched out his lips in an expression of disdain. "I wouldn't go _that_ far." But his face turned a little grim and he fell silent, stared out at the road rushing by. _Too many memories. _ His stomach clutched and he shook his head firmly, shut the emotion down like throwing a circuit breaker. _Not going there. Nope. _"Anyway, it seems to me that it's high time we took a vacation. I need a fucking break."

Sam shivered, suddenly chilled, and he leaned forward to kick the heat up to high, then hunched back into the seat, wrapping his arms up around himself in a hug. The stars wheeled overhead as they sped east, racing to meet the dawn with the rumble of the engine providing a throaty song to drive by.

Dean never ceased to amaze Sam with his memory and uncanny sense of direction, like he had GPS directly implanted in his brain. Even after several years since being anywhere near the area, Dean found his way unerringly to Hibbing, through the deserted streets of the town, and back out into the country. He had always been like that, even as a little kid…he was the Winchester Compass, always able to lead his dad and brother out of any thick wood or tangled swamp, just based on his own instinct and experience and some inexplicable sense of which way was which. _Would have made a helluva Marine, _John used to say, his eyes proud and sad at the same time.

Finally, just as Sam was about to drift back into dreamland, Dean turned down a nearly-invisible two track that snaked away into a thick copse of trees, and after a short drive the Impala's headlights fell upon a tidy clapboarded house. The darkened windows stared out like hooded eyes, but there was a slight glow in one of the ground floor windows, the flickering light of a fire in a hearth.

As Dean drove on toward the house, the car suddenly bogged down in the snow and ground to a halt. Dean gunned the gas, spinning the tires, but to no avail. The engine roared and the wheels screamed as they spun uselessly in the slushy snow, only digging themselves deeper into the muck. "Fuck," hissed Dean. He slammed the gearshift into neutral and glared at Sam. "Well, make yourself useful, Chumpstain, get out and push."

Sam growled and held up his mangled hand. "Um, broken finger, dude."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You big baby," he muttered. After a few seconds of staring out into the windblown snow, he huffed a sigh, pulled on a pair of gloves, and climbed out of the car. Sam smirked as he slid behind the wheel and waited until Dean was behind the back bumper, then slipped the gear into drive and revved the engine, sending a spray of snow and slush flying up into Dean's face. Dean's curses were lost beneath a sudden rush of winter wind buffeting the car, but Sam still barked a little laugh, not needing to be a lip-reader to get Dean's drift.

They tried to rock the car out of the snow, with Sam dropping the gearshift from reverse to drive over and over again, and with Dean pushing from behind until he was purple in the face and Sam feared he would burst a blood vessel from exertion, rage, or both. Finally, after falling into the snow one time too many, Dean stamped up to the driver's door. "Fuck it, we'll just walk up to the house. It's not that far. We'll get the car out in the morning." He tried uselessly to swipe the snow from his jeans and coat, but it was a losing battle and he soon just turned up his collar and buried his chin in it, swearing under his breath.

The winter air struck Sam like a slap as he climbed out of the car, and he was suddenly aware of an urgent need to pee. _Stupid roadtrips. _They trudged through the shin deep snow toward the house, hunching in their coats as the bitter cold cut through to their coats to their bones. A gibbous moon hung low in the sky, peeping occasionally from behind the scudding snow clouds and silhouetting the pine trees surrounding the house with an icy blue light. The only sound was the crunching of their footsteps in the snow and the occasional whistling rush of wind through the trees.

As they walked into the front yard, a motion sensor light on the garage clicked on, bathing the glittering snow with a warm glow that would have been picturesque, if not for the frigid bite of the wind. Sam jammed his hands into his pockets, grumbling, "'s cold as balls out here."

Dean brushed by Sam, bounded up the porch steps two at a time, and rapped loudly at the door. A sonorous _woof _and a deep growl answered from the other side, and Dean frowned. "That's new." He pressed his face against the door, peeking in the wrong side of the peephole. "Hellooo?" he called, falsetto, too cheerful for the middle of the damn night. Sam just tried to shrink deeper into his coat, shivering in the icy air. The clouds passed over the moon, casting a shadow over the snow-covered yard, dimming his sight to mere shadows.

After a long minute the porch light flashed on and the curtains of the window beside the door twitched as someone peeked out. Dean grinned as he heard the click and rattle of multiple locks and door chains, then the door swung open with a loud squeal of hinges.


	2. Chapter 2

_Special note! The events here take place in midseason 3, post-Deal, pre-Hell. I'm sorry if I didn't make the timeline clear at first! P__lease take into consideration that I've had a few stiff ones while doing the final runthrough on this, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know. Also, please review. It does my heart so much good, and it IS almost Christmas, after all...__  
_

* * *

The door squealed open, hinges squeaking, frozen metal creaking against frozen metal. "Holy hell." Kathleen Hudak squinted out at Sam and Dean, her hair wild and her cheek creased with rosy marks from her pillow. "Not even the asscrack of dawn and there's two vagrants banging down my door." A dun-colored, barrel-chested pitbull stood between her and the brothers, and he stared up at them with wary amber eyes, but Kathleen nudged him aside with her bare foot, ordering, "Move it, Murphy," and crushed Dean into a long embrace. After what seemed to Sam to be an uncomfortable length of time, she released Dean and pulled Sam into a hug of his own, a hug that smelled of shampoo and soap and sleep. He tried not to notice her soft flannel shorts and tank top.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Kathleen let go of Sam, and stepped back to survey him. "Christ, you look like shit." She reached up and gently brushed her fingertips across the bruise at his eye. He flinched away from the touch and she winced in sympathy. A gust of wind sent a blast of snow swirling around the boys and Sam scrunched his shoulders, trying to sink deeper into his coat. "Oh, sorry. Get in here, you must be freezing." Kathleen pulled the brothers inside and shut the door, and began resecuring what seemed to Sam to be a ridiculous number of locks. The house smelled faintly of wood smoke, and Sam couldn't stop a shiver at the transition from the frigid air outside into the homey warmth of the entryway. A soft light flickered from the fireplace in the living room, casting golden shadows across the walls.

"We were passing nearby and thought maybe you could spare a bed for some old friends." Dean made no effort to hide his assessment of Kathleen's pajamas and she swatted at him. He dodged, grinning.

"What, one bed? You two gonna share?" Kathleen teased. Her smile crinkled the skin around her eyes just the way that Sam remembered, and she tucked a lock of her chin-length hair behind her ear. A warm flush reminded Sam that he shouldn't be looking at her in quite that way, so he turned his attention instead to Murphy and stooped to cautiously extend a hand, allowing a few friendly sniffs before scratching behind the dog's cropped ears. Murphy grumbled at Sam but gave him a half-hearted lick on the wrist.

Dean just raised an eyebrow. "Sam can have the bed. I'll just share with you." His mouth twisted up in a leering half-smile.

Kathleen's slight blush didn't escape Sam's notice and he hurried to interrupt. He had no desire for an aural mental replay of her, _um¸_encounter with Dean. "To be honest, more than anything, I'd kill for a shower," he said plaintively. He scratched at his scalp, acutely aware of how grungy he was with dirt and dried sweat. "I'd hate to get your nice sheets all dirty." The thought of shampoo and soap and fluffy towels, and especially steaming hot water to drive the chill from his bones, filled him with sudden longing.

"You guys _are _a little ripe," Kathleen admitted, wrinkling her nose slightly. She helped Sam shrug out of his coat and held it at arms length, looking it up and down suspiciously, then hung it over the brass and glass knob of the front door.

"It's his demon blood," offered Dean. "The sulfur makes him gassy." Kathleen's upper lip curled back in confusion and mild disgust, and Sam reddened. He flipped Dean the bird and hastened down the hall, his ears burning with mortification. The dog followed him to the foot of the stairs, glaring suspiciously, and then returned to sit on top of Kathleen's foot and lean his full weight against her shin, staking his claim.

Kathleen watched Sam go with a small smile, and then turned back to Dean. "So. Dean Fucking Winchester."

"Hell, yeah." Dean looked at her for a moment and then folded her into another hug. Murphy tried to muscle between them, jostling at their feet with his head. Dean gave in to the canine's jealousy and pulled away, held Kathleen at arm's length, and smiled. "You've got your hair back. How's your head?"

Kathleen extricated herself from his grip and chucked him lightly in the arm with a loose fist. "I've a pretty hard skull. Would take more to damage this melon than all that nonsense you got me into, knock on wood." She rapped her knuckles on her forehead. "Fancy a drink?" Without waiting for a reply, she padded toward the kitchen and Dean followed, with the dog bringing up the rear, rumbling low in his chest. "How's your foot?" Kathleen called back over her shoulder. She pulled a hand through her hair, coaxing it into some semblance of order.

"Five by five. Gets a little twingy in the cold or the wet though. Nothing unbearable." Dean slipped out of his coat and draped it over a chair.

"You're in the wrong state for trying to avoid the cold and wet, kid." Kathleen flipped open a cupboard. "Whiskey, right?"

Dean leaned down to unlace his boots. "Am I that predictable?"

"Well, I've got vodka, so I can mix you a Pink Panty Pulldown if you'd prefer." Kathleen smirked over her shoulder. She reached to pull a pair of lowball glasses down from a high shelf, and Dean tried not to notice her tank top ride up her back as she stretched. A ceramic Christmas tree glowed on the counter behind her, painting colored jewels of light on her skin.

"Whiskey'll do. Let's save the panty pulldown for later." Dean winked and pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, flopping to a seat. He sighed, feeling all his miles on the road in the ache of his muscles. He shifted, trying to ease the pain in his tailbone, and pulled his boots off, unable to stifle a little groan of relief as he did so. He wriggled his toes and curled the arches of his feet, reveling in the relief of podiatric freedom. He made it a point to ignore the fact that his pinky toe was poking through a hole in his sock.

"Lord, you haven't changed a bit, you dirty bird," sniffed Kathleen, shaking her head. She sloshed a bit of booze into each glass, stifling a yawn, then stopped short. "Oh fuck, Dean, I'm sorry…I totally forgot." She pushed the bottle away as if to distance herself from her sudden embarrassment. "You dry now?"

Dean smiled. "It's okay. That's a distant memory." _A memory I'd prefer to forget, thanks muchly._ "All under control." Dean glanced around the kitchen, at the frilled calico curtains and knicknacked shelves, at the matchy-matchy kitty-cat salt and pepper shakers front and center on the table. The fluff and frills of Kathleen's house had surprised him at first, but now the incongruity of it just made him chuckle a bit. _An iron fist in a velvet glove. _But his eyes were suddenly drawn to a pantry door which stood ajar. The shelves were lines with a small arsenal of firearms and knives, as well as various neatly labeled glass bottles of herbs, salts, and minerals. "What's this action?" He jerked his thumb toward the open door. His eyebrows migrated toward his hairline as he spotted what appeared to be a grenade. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, woman, is the apocalypse coming?"

"Hey, it's your fault," sniped Kathleen. "You and Sam turned out to be my Pandora's Box." She handed Dean a chipped rocks glass with a generous dram of whiskey. "I have you two idiots to thank for my present state of fucked-uped-ness." She leaned back against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other and curling her toes on the cold linoleum to hide her chipped nail polish.

Dean took a sip of his drink and gave a little hissing intake of breath, sucking the air around his teeth, then toasted Kathleen with a slight raise of his glass. "Good stuff. You can afford this on a cop's salary?" Kathleen leaned forward and handed him the bottle, Glenlivet. "You sure you're not a dirty cop, Deputy Hudak?" _Please say yes. The dirtier the better._

The corner of her mouth quirked up in a small, crooked smile. "It's actually Detective Hudak, now."

Dean's eyebrows jumped and he pursed his lips in a little whistle of admiration. "Moving up in the world. Congrats."

She shrugged off his words, turned away. "Yeah, well. Guess that FBI guy had some kind words about the Bender case when he was done investigating, believe it or not. Went over pretty well with the brass. Besides, they've never had a female detective in the department before, so it played well with the press, too." There was a note of bitterness in her words.

Dean took another sip, swirled the booze around his molars. "Really, though, what's with Fort Knox here?" He gestured toward the pantry. The dog was sniffing delicately at his boots, snuffling lightly. Dean nudged him away with his toe.

Kathleen scrubbed a hand across her eyes and swallowed another yawn. "Once you assholes showed me what was out there I couldn't just forget about it."

The words hit a little too close to home. Dean frowned and shook his head slightly, suddenly solemn. _So fucking unfair. She doesn't deserve to be sucked into our sort of life…she's better than that. Hell, even stayed away so trouble wouldn't find her. So much for that. _"Sorry."

Kathleen smiled wryly and plucked up a washcloth from the sink. She mopped up a few drops of spilled liquor, making distracted little circles on the Formica countertop. "Don't be. I'm glad I know. It just means I can protect people better."

Dean took a swig out of his glass and grimaced against the burn of the whiskey. "What about protecting yourself?"

"I've talked with a lot of people, done a lot of research. Hell, I've emailed Bobby now and again, if I needed help. I don't look for trouble, but I don't run from it, either." Kathleen hooked a chair with her toe and pulled it away from the table. "But what's new with you two? You guys sort of fell off the face of the earth." She settled to a seat, tucking one leg up underneath herself and sipping at her whiskey. _More than a friggin' year without a word, you twit. Didn't hurt my feelings a bit, no it sure didn't._

Dean snorted a laugh, almost spilling his drink. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He glanced out the window at the swirling snow, flakes lit into diamonds by the porch light. "I'll just say that we know more now than we ever wanted to. It's been…bad," he admitted. He ran his finger around the rim of the glass, suddenly reluctant to say more.

Kathleen searched his face with concerned eyes, the corner of her mouth twisting downward with regret. "I'm sorry," she finally murmured. "Like you haven't been through hell already."

Dean blanched and his glass slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The glass thumped onto the table and splashed whiskey onto the wood.


	3. Chapter 3

_I stayed up and slaved to finish this for Christmas Day...reward me with reviews, I pray! I hope you all have wonderful holiday, filled with family and food and all the things that make you happy. Special thanks to Kate, who gave me a little suggestion for this chapter. Hugs, kiddo! Also, things will be picking up in the next chapter, for those of you who are waiting so patiently for gore and whumpage..._

* * *

Kathleen was on her feet and at Dean's side almost immediately. "You okay?" Her hand was cool on the back of Dean's neck and he leaned into her touch, closing his eyes and taking a long, deep breath. Adrenaline had bumped his heart rate to double-time, and the rush stole his breath. Hearing the words come out of her mouth had caught him with his defenses down; shocked his system, brought him back to reality, out of the dream of warmth and home and sleepy conversation in a dimly lit kitchen in the waning of a winter night. _Reality, like a bitchslap, always knocking the taste clean out of your mouth._

"It's a long story," he finally admitted, voice shaking. "You just kind of caught me off guard, there." He huffed out a forced laugh. He didn't really want to admit any of the events that had gone before, as if his actions had been shameful, loathsome. But somehow he knew he could tell her…he could trust her. Anyway, she deserved the truth after all she had done for both him and Sam. "Guess I'll just cut to the chase." Another deep breath, and a steeling shot of whiskey.

She stroked her thumb over the curve of his neck, seeking to soothe his obviously frazzled nerves. "What happened?" Her words were soft and gentle, but Dean could hear the trepidation in her voice.

_You opened the door, you idiot, you've gotta walk through it now. _"Sam died, Kathleen." Her brow furrowed with confusion. Dean thought hard for a moment, not wanting to continue, but she had earned the right to know the whole sordid story. "You've been doing research, right? You ever hear of Robert Johnson, the blues player? The song Cross Road Blues?"

Kathleen pursed her lips as she searched her memory for a long moment, and then the color suddenly drained from her face. She backed away from Dean and sank into her chair as if her knees had decided not to support her weight and just gave up. "Jesus. Jesus, Dean," she whispered. "You made a deal."

Dean looked away from her, his stomach clenching, unable to stand the look of horror on her face. "I had to," he muttered. He smoothed his fingertip over a chip in the rim of his glass, unwilling to meet Kathleen's eyes. "It was the only way to save Sam."

"But you…" She stopped, bit the corner of her mouth to stop her lower lip trembling, and picked up her drink. Her hand was shaking and the whiskey started dancing in the glass, so she set it back down and fisted her fingers in her lap. "What about you?"

Now Dean did look over at her, though it took a steeling of his will to do so. "Kathleen, you know me. After everything we went through, you probably know me better than almost anybody other than Sam and Bobby." He looked away again, terrible memories and regrets twisting his heart. He thought that he had passed the pain of what had happened, and that he had accepted the pain that was coming, but every time he had to put voice to it, the horror seemed to double. He tossed back the dregs of his glass, swallowing down the booze to settle his anxiety. "You know I didn't have a choice."

Kathleen was silent, staring darkly at Dean with glistening eyes, conflict clear on her face. But then she gave a small nod. "So ten years," she sighed quietly, resigned, weary.

Dean shook his head slightly and stood, picking up the whiskey bottle and refilling his glass. He set the bottle on the counter and stared down at the amber liquid, wanting his back to be to her when he said it. He didn't want to see her face. "One." Her sharp intake of breath told him more than enough and his stomach twisted. "Got about six months left." _False bravado. You made your bed, now lay in it. Buck up, suck it up, swallow down the fear, boy, be a man. I didn't raise cowards._ Dean took a long drink, swirling the alcohol around his molars and concentrating on the burn on his tongue. When he finally turned around, Kathleen was slumped back in her chair, resting her hand on her forehead, sadness etched clearly across her face. Murphy was anxiously nudging at her with his nose, giving little whines of inquiry and worry.

"Jesus." It was more a prayer than a curse. Kathleen passed her palm over her mouth as though to push away the sick taste of bile in the back of her throat. "I don't know what to say," she finally admitted after a long moment of silence. Her feelings were etched in deep lines around her mouth and in her forehead.

"There isn't anything _to _say. It's done." Dean sat back down, then scooched his chair closer to hers, and he took her hand. "Please don't be mad. Don't think less of me. You know I had to."

Kathleen was silent for a long moment, then she sighed shakily. "I'll only say this." She twined her fingers into Dean's, pressing her smooth palm against his calloused one. "When I lost my brother..." Her throat tightened and she swallowed hard, willing her emotions into submission. "If I knew then what I know now, I would have done the same thing." She squeezed Dean's hand and narrowed her eyes. "But that doesn't make you any less of an ass for doing it."

Dean couldn't help but laugh, despite the lump in his own chest. "Sam would agree with you on that note."

Kathleen released his hand and brushed her forearm over her eyes, dashing away the tears that threatened, then took a long sip from her glass, grimacing at the taste of the booze. "Don't know how you drink this stuff straight." She scrubbed a wrist under her nose, squinching her eyes. "So how's Sam taking it?"

Dean shrugged. "Sam is Sam. You know how he is, like a dog with a bone." He swirled his glass, watching the whiskey undulate smoothly with his motions. "He's bound and determined to stop it from happening. He thinks that if he tries hard enough, through sheer force of will, he can keep me from…well…you know. He's always been that way, the stubborn little shit."

Dean glanced over at Kathleen and was suddenly taken aback. She was staring down at her hands, her gaze unfocused and her mouth slightly slack. "Kath?" She didn't respond, but her eyelids flickered a few times. Dean frowned and reached over, softly touched her elbow. Murphy growled low in his chest, warning Dean off, and then gave a Kathleen's shin a gentle lick. Kathleen didn't move, only stared, and Dean's heart crawled into his throat. _Christ…_"Kathleen?"

She gave a sudden little stir, as though startled by an unexpected noise, and looked into Dean's face with an expression of confusion. _She doesn't know me…._After a split second her eyes changed, flashed with awareness, and she managed a wavering smile. "I…I don't mean to be a poor host, but it's pushing four in the morning. Think we can continue this at a decent hour?" Her words were slow, slightly slurry. "I'm totally beat. And maybe a little drunk, now." She gave a sideways little grin.

Dean looked at her for a long moment, then slugged back the dregs of his drink, swallowing down his concern along with the whiskey. "Of course. I'm sorry." He stood, paused, then offered his hand and helped her to her feet. "I'm glad to see you again."

A sad smile crossed Kathleen's face. "Yeah. It's been too long." She reached forward and lightly squeezed Dean's bicep. They stood for a long moment, just looking at one another, remembering and thinking. Then Kathleen released Dean's arm and lightly patted him on the cheek. "Come on, kiddo. Let's get to bed, before Sam gets all nosy. You can take Riley's room, you remember where it is."

As he started toward the stairs, Dean glanced into the living room, which was lit by the dying embers of a fire in the hearth, and he noticed a little nest of pillows and blankets on the couch. "What you sleeping down here for? You've got that fabulous, flowery fairy wonderland of a bedroom upstairs."

Kathleen shot him a look, but didn't dignify the crack with a reply. Instead she softly brushed the skin under her eyes with her fingertips, as though she were suddenly conscious of the dark circles marring the skin there. "Bad dreams," she murmured. "I've not been sleeping well lately." She ran her hand up the doorjamb, almost caressing the wood. "Since Dad died, it's been just me here in the house, which was okay. He really started to lose himself near the end…just wasn't Dad anymore. When he passed it was almost a relief…a load off my shoulders." She grimaced. "Does that sound bad?"

Dean shook his head. "No." _I know that feeling too well. _"It's normal, actually. Having that much responsibility is tough on a person."

Kathleen glanced over at him, then out the front window. "In his last few months, he started to forget what happened to Riley. I mean, I never told him the truth about it, of course. Jesus, that would have killed him. But Dad sometimes even forgot Riley was missing. Would ask me all the time why he never came to visit."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him Riley was away at school. That he'd be home for Christmas." Kathleen looked away from Dean. "I couldn't stand to keep telling him over and over that his son was missing. And I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him what really happened." _That I failed both him and Riley._

"What about your mom?" Dean gestured at the family portrait that hung front and center above the fireplace. _Four young faces from a fargone time, only one left now._

Kathleen gave a rather unladylike snort. "Mom was convinced that Riley was just being irresponsible." A little scowl creased her face. "She always believed the worst of him. Of the both of us, to be honest."

"Huh." Dean glanced around, scanned the room. "So now it's just you in this big empty house." He didn't try too hard to hide the real meaning of his inquiry, and Kathleen rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, just me. Which hasn't been so bad until lately." She had to tense her muscles to hide a shiver. "I can't put my finger on it. It's just…I guess for some reason the house doesn't seem so empty anymore." She glanced down at the dog, who had draped himself across her foot again. "Even Murphy feels it. He's always been so laid back, but now…" She shrugged. "He's jumpy and protective of me now…never leaves my side." As if to accentuate her point, Murphy shifted so that he was between Dean and Kathleen, and looked up at Dean with an almost-human look of mistrust.

"Well, you're okay for now." Dean quirked a cocky grin. "You don't need a dog to protect ya when I'm here."

"Get outta here," scoffed Kathleen. "I won't remind you about what happened the _last_ time you came around." She gave Dean a shove back into the hall. "Good night, you twit."

Dean climbed the stairs, suddenly remembering how tired he really was, and he couldn't tell if his warm glow was from the booze, the company, or both. He stripped to his boxers, shoved a pile of pillows down to the foot of the bed, and promptly dropped into a dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, I know I promised the whump would begin here, but the chapter turned into a monster so I had to lop it in half...please don't hurt me. And by the way, head over to Zatnikatel's place and congratulate her on the FOUR AWARDS she won for Woods/Moon. Kickass!**

* * *

Sam woke with the first light of dawn, circadian rhythms trumping his weariness. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was…in a soft bed with sheets that weren't sticky and scratchy, but which were soft as silk and smelled of detergent and fabric softener instead of stale bodies and sex. _Heaven? _The monstrous pile of frilly pillows surrounding him clued him in. He was struck with a sudden impulse to build himself a fort, like he and Dean used to do at Pastor Jim's in days long passed. _Not heaven, just Kathleen's. _

With a resigned groan he decided against any pillow-related architectural project and rolled out of the bed, stretching mightily, twisting and pulling until it seemed that every joint in his body had popped. He pulled on a t-shirt and shuffled out into the hall, listening for any signs of movement downstairs, and then wandered into the bathroom.

He glanced in the mirror and scrubbed a hand across his stubble, shivering a little at the chill of tile against his bare feet. The glistening white porcelain of the clawfoot tub was too beguiling to resist, so he turned the hot water tap to full blast, breathing deeply as steam began to billow. He flipped open the medicine cabinet for some toothpaste, as well as to nosily peruse the contents therein. Nothing incriminating there, just a few bottles of aspirin, a multivitamin, a half empty bottle of something called Keppra. _Oh, well done, Dean, no Valtrex._ A sudden onset of snooper's shame, and the fact that the tub was full to the brim, caused Sam to quietly shut the cabinet. After a surreptitious, and completely unnecessary, glance around, Sam picked up a bottle of jasmine-scented bubble bath from the top of the toilet and tipped a capful into the tub, then stepped in and sank to his chin in the bubbles and hot water.

Beside the tub, a large picture window, framed with blue and white curtains, looked out over the side yard and into the woods. The snow shone against the dark evergreens, a white blanket glittering in the morning dim. Sam looked out at the trees and consciously relaxed his body, bit by bit, starting with his pinky toes and working upward, until he was just a sleepy brain floating in the steaming, scented water.

He lay there with closed eyes as dawn marched on, filling the room gradually with the cold white light of a frigid winter morning. The water cooled to lukewarm as he drifted between consciousness and a hazy dreamstate. Finally the water chilled enough that Sam opened his eyes, but as he did, a black shadow, dark and formless, seemed to shimmer just at the corner of his vision. He sat bolt upright, splashing water over the brim of the tub and glaring around the room with a racing heart, but there was nothing to be seen except fuzzy towels and little shell-shaped soaps in porcelain dishes. _Dreamin'…_

He rose from the bathtub, dripping and shivering, and proceeded to dry off with what he was suddenly convinced was the softest, fluffiest towel in the history of textiles. _Too many roach motels, not enough luxury in my life. _He glanced out the window to see that Dean had dug out the Impala and was now clearing snow from the driveway with enthusiastic flings of his shovel. With a smirk, Sam rapped a knuckle loudly on the window. As soon as he saw Dean turn, he dropped his towel and pressed his bare ass against the cold glass. He grinned as he heard Dean cackle with laughter.

After a leisurely shave, Sam clumped down the stairs, stretching with the satisfaction of a sun-warmed cat. Glancing into the living room, he saw that Kathleen was still sleeping, not much more than a hillock of blankets, a lump on the couch surrounded by a mountain range of pillows. The television was on, but muted, with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye miming their way through White Christmas. Murphy was asleep by the hearth, flat on his back and with four paws in the air. Sam shook his head with a little smile, resisting the urge to go rub the dog's belly, and padded into the kitchen.

With a mammoth yawn, he rummaged through a few cupboards, came up with a nearly empty bag of coffee, and set the pot to perking. Perusal of the refrigerator turned up the fixings for a passable breakfast for three. But as he went looking for a frying pan, the phone next to the stove jangled. Sam glanced toward the living room, but there were no sounds of stirring, so he picked up the handset. "Hello?"

"Hudak?" The voice was sharp, gruff. Downright rude, really.

_Well, obviously not._ Sam bit back the smart remark, settling for, "Just a moment." He set the phone on the stove and stepped into the living room. Kathleen still hadn't woken. She was curled into the fetal position, twisted in on herself as if protecting her vital organs. Her face was lined, furrows cutting across her forehead and around her mouth, so unlike how Sam remembered her looking when she slept. One hand was tucked beneath her pillow, the other fisted up by her chin. He touched her gently on the shoulder. "Kathleen?"

She shot upright so violently that Sam leapt backward, dodging as she swung a fist at him. Murphy lunged at him with a warning bark, his teeth snapping just centimeters from Sam's knee. "Hey, it's me!" Sam protested, both hands up in surrender as he backpedaled away from both Kathleen and the dog.

Kathleen blinked at him, wild-eyed, then gulped in a breath. "Sneak up on a girl, why don't you." She knuckled at her eyes, trying to hide the flush of her cheeks. _Get a grip, girl._

"Phone call." Sam flicked his gaze over her, concerned. He caught sight of a glint of metal under her pillow as she staggered to her feet and stumbled toward the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder, then flipped the pillow aside to find a butterfly knife resting on the cushion. He touched it and found the steel still warm from her grip. With a frown, he covered it back over and followed Kathleen to the kitchen.

Squinting in protest of the light streaming through the kitchen windows, Kathleen fumbled with the phone. "'Lo?" She stifled a yawn. "Yeah? Who was it?" But as Sam watched, her face changed in an instant. The grogginess of sleep disappeared and was replaced by a narrow-eyed intensity. "Holy shit." she breathed. A few seconds of silence, then, "I'll be right over." She crashed the receiver into the cradle and headed for the stairs at a jog.

Sam followed, taking the steps two at a time, and caught up to her as she darted into her bedroom. "What's up?"

Kathleen scraped her hand through her hair and started digging in the closet. She started to strip off her pajamas, then came to her senses and glared at Sam. "At least turn around. Jesus." He obliged, staring out into the hallway. "Got an ugly suicide outside town. Third death in two months. Two murders and now this." She shimmied into a pair of jeans, glancing sideways to make sure Sam wasn't ogling her. "Something's up. Something bad."

"How so?" Murphy ambled up to Sam, so he squatted and scratched the dog's ears.

"This is a relatively small town, Sam. Stuff like this doesn't happen here. At least not since our favorite family split, anyway." Kathleen pulled a shirt over her head, looped her arms through the sleeves.

"But you said this one was a suicide. It happens," reasoned Sam. He wasn't keen on the idea of finding trouble on what was supposed to be a vacation. Or as close to a vacation as the Winchesters ever got, anyway.

"The local minister put a .38 in his mouth and blew his teeth out the back of his head. Not normal." She brushed by him and stutter-stepped back down the stairs. "They're all connected. Trust me on this one." She started rummaging through the coat closet, and narrowly avoided getting knocked over as Dean came sauntering through the front door.

"Hey, where ya goin'?" Dean stamped the snow off his boots and brushed it from his hair, scattering the tiny flakes across the floor of the entryway.

"Work. I'm starting to think this one is up your alley, actually. I might have to ban you from the county, if you don't stop bringing me problems every time you come around." Kathleen bent and jammed her foot into a clunky black boot. Dean raised an eyebrow and pointed at a pair of black leather, thigh-high, skyscraper-heeled boots that sat in the back of the closet. "Why don't you wear those? Them're CFMBs." He smiled a little lasciviously.

Kathleen shot him a look. "It's winter in Minnesota, not pledge week at university." She tied her boot and slipped on the other. "These shit-kickers are a bit better suited to the job at hand."

Dean affected a pout. "Just because it's snowing out doesn't mean you have to dress like Marge Gunderson." Kathleen just glowered, pulling her laces tight with more force than was probably called for. "Well, will you wear the other ones for me sometime?" Dean grinned and dodged as Kathleen swatted at him with an annoyed growl.

"You two can tag along if you want. Being as I'm now _Detective _Hudak, and all, I can call the shots." She made a show of polishing her fingernails against her shirt. "Actually might not be a bad idea for you to be there, I could pick your brains."

"Hell, why not," shrugged Dean. "Been almost 24 hours since I saw any blood. Don't wanna get rusty."

"Then saddle up, boys." Kathleen grabbed a worn leather satchel from the closet and stepped into the kitchen, followed by Dean, while Sam jogged upstairs to find his shoes.

"So you've got some supernatural mooses ganking folks, or what?" Dean pulled a mug out of the cupboard, removed the pot from the coffee maker, and placed the mug directly under the stream of perking coffee. Kathleen started to pick through the pantry arsenal, and tucked a small Glock into her waistband. "Are you sure Hibbing isn't a hellmouth? This place is crawling with spooks."

"I blame you for that, by the way." Kathleen threw a pair of gloves on the table. "None of this nonsense ever happened before you two showed up."

Dean poked his head into the pantry, sipping at his coffee and surveying the inventory. "Holy shit!" he yelped. "Is that a Super Shorty?" He nearly dropped his cup in his hurry to lay hands on the gun. "Damn, girl, where do you get this stuff?" He ran his fingers over the truncated barrel of the 12-guage and caressed the pistol grip, and he allowed himself a whistle of admiration. "I'd love to have one of these…"

"It's all about who you know." Kathleen poured herself a quarter cup of coffee and gulped it down. "Being close to the border helps too, just between you and me."

"You sure you don't want to do this full time? You'd make a helluva hunter." Dean put the gun back on the shelf gently, almost reverently.

Kathleen snorted. "I'd lose my pension." She shrugged into her black pea-coat, and secured her Glock in a holster at her hip. "Besides, I don't think I'm cut out for it."

"Don't sell yourself short," retorted Dean. "You're a natural."

"Bite your tongue."

"Can I bite yours instead?" The comment earned Dean a sharp slap on the arm.

Sam galumphed back down the stairs, pulling on a stocking cap that he had found in the bureau of the guest room. Kathleen started to pick up her bag, but Dean took it out of her hand and hiked it over his shoulder. Murphy followed them to the door but Kathleen stopped him with an upraised hand and a stern look. "Not this time, Murph." The dog sat with a sigh that sounded distinctly like canine disgust, and Kathleen graced him with an affectionate pat on the head and ruffle of the ears.

The frigid wind hit Sam like a slap and he sucked in a breath, the freezing air making his front teeth ache. "Fucking cold out here," he chattered, folding his arms over his chest and tucking his hands into his armpits.

"You guys just aren't used to it is all," reasoned Kathleen, pulling on a pair of leather gloves. "I should make you eat some of my neighbor lady's Lutefisk. That'll put some hair on your chest; perk you up for the winter." She clicked open the doors to her 4x4 truck with her keys.

"Lutefisk? Sounds vaguely dirty." Dean kicked at a snow bank, sending snow up in a shower, which then blew back in his face and made him sputter.

"Just get in the truck, you ass." She started to climb into the truck, but then stopped short to glower at both brothers. "And speaking of which, which one of you left an assprint on my bathroom window?"

Sam's sputtered explanation was drowned out by Dean's roar of laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry for the delay on updating...I've been busy digging myself out of the three feet of snow we've gotten since the New Year. Please review!_

* * *

Kathleen pulled to a stop outside a tiny stone church with a weathered steeple that cast a long shadow in the snow. Dean was loathe to step out of the truck, being as the heater was blowing 300 degree air directly on his feet, but he climbed out into the icy air anyway, though not without a grumble. A cordon of police tape ringed the church, flapping in the wind, and a few cops stood around blowing on their hands and eyeing the gawkers that were rubbernecking as they drove by. Kathleen strode up to the tape and ducked under it. Dean and Sam followed, doing their best to look official, but when one of the deputies tried to stop them, Kathleen barked, "They're with me," in what seemed to Dean to be a sexily forceful voice. The officer shrugged and stepped back to join his buddies.

Kathleen walked through the glass doors of the church and stonily regarded the deputies who were standing around, shooting the shit. They fell silent, chastened by her mere presence, and she walked past them, chin up, chest forward, pulling open the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the narthex. Her nose immediately wrinkled at the thick, coppery scent of blood, but she continued on into the nave, strolling down the aisle with an air of professional detachment.

A man in a wrinkled suit jacket was kneeling in front of the alter, hunched over a crumpled body. A pool of blood sheened the polished-stone floor, darkening as it congealed. The dead man was wearing a black pants and a collarless black shirt, and the vestigial tab of his minister's collar was stained with blood. He laid face up, eyes half-lidded, empty, dull, and staring at the ceiling. His lower lip had been nearly blown off and lay flopped against his chin like a crimson leech. One of his front teeth dangled from its socket by a thread of gum tissue, and several teeth more were scattered around his head like the petals of a grotesque flower.

"What do you have, Hopkins?" Kathleen's tone was all business as she looked down on the bloody scene. _Cold as ice. Don't let it in. It's a body, not a man._

"Nice, huh?" The jacketed man looked up at Kathleen, revealing a doughy face and a broken tooth lurking beneath his porno mustache. His gaze fell on Sam and Dean and he scowled. "Who're them?"

Kathleen just shook her head. "They're with me. Police academy students on a ridealong." She sank to a knee next to the corpse. "So? What have we got?"

Hopkins shrugged. "Gunshot wound to the mouth." Kathleen shot him a _no-shit-Sherlock _look. "Self-inflicted, ya ask me." Hopkins jerked his thumb at the body. The dead man's hand was flung out to the side, still clutching a half-rusted five shot revolver in red-and-white mottled fingers.

Kathleen leaned close, her eyes roving over the gun, the hand, the shattered jaw, the spattered blood. Sam could almost see her mind working, wheels turning, formulating and rejecting theories. She pulled a glove from her back pocket and slipped it on, snapping the latex against her wrist, then gently touched the dead man's gun hand, probing at his knuckles. "I think you're right there. He's not in rigor yet, but look how tight his fingers are on the gun." She nudged at the man's fist. "If somebody placed it in his hand after they shot him, he wouldn't be gripping it this way, not pre-rigor." She blew out a breath of frustration. "Dammit."

"So why'd he do it?" Hopkins stood and puffed out his cheeks, running a hand over his moustache. "A minister blows his brains out. He bangin' a congregant and feels guilty? Embezzelin' money from the church and gets caught? Diddlin' boys in the Sunday School?"

Kathleen hissed, "Shut up, you dumb shit." She pushed herself to her feet and glared at Hopkins. "His daughter, remember?"

Hopkins flushed and looked away, suddenly fascinated with the craftsmanship of the carved altar. "I'm just gonna…go…check through the office for fingerprints." He made a hasty retreat up the aisle, but not before shooting a pissy look over his shoulder at Kathleen. Dean caught sight of him mouthing the word _bitch _and had to restrain himself from taking a moment to teach the rumpled detective some manners.

Instead he stepped up, surveyed the dead man. "Nice." He glanced back at Hopkins' retreating figure, scowled. "Who's the suit?"

"Detective Hopkins. Came here from the city, thinks he's hot shit on a silver platter." Kathleen sneered. "He's about as sharp as a serving spoon."

"So what happened to his daughter?" Sam bent at the waist to inspect the wound in the man's face, ignoring the blood that threatened to lap at his boot.

Dean leaned in too, then wrinkled his nose and turned to Sam. "Dude, why do you smell like flowers?" Sam elbowed Dean in the ribs, which earned him a little shove in return.

Kathleen fished a camera out of her satchel, and she began to snap photos of the body, carefully framing each, pointedly ignoring Sam and Dean. She pulled a numbered yellow triangle from her coat pocket and placed it over a shell casing that lay next to a foot of the altar, snugged up against a broken molar. She clicked another picture, then sat back on her heels and surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes.

Sam, following the twinge of instinct in his gut, repeated, "What happened to this guy's daughter?"

Kathleen didn't look at Sam, just glanced over her shoulder to see where Hopkins had got to. "Killed in a wreck a couple years ago. She was his only kid. He never really got over it. Wife's been dead around 10 years." Her voice was tight, words clipped short. She pushed herself to her feet, wincing as one of her knees popped, and surveyed the scene, her finger twitching against the lens of the camera. "Seems pretty cut and dry," she commented, gesturing down at the dead man.

Sam glanced over at her, but she steadfastly refused to meet his eyes, just stared at the macabre scene at her feet, so he dug into his coat pocket and fished out a bashed up EMF meter that Dean had cobbled together from spare parts. Kathleen caught sight of it and huffed loudly. "Christ, Sam. Ontological parsimony, ever hear of it?" Sam's brow furrowed and he glanced at Dean. "Occam's razor. Not everything has to be ghosts and demons, for fuck sake." She whirled and stalked away, then tossed back over her shoulder, "Sometimes bad things just happen."

Dean and Sam shared a look, one borne of suspicion and experience, and without any verbal agreement Sam moved forward to scan the body with the EMF meter, while Dean turned on his heel and went after Kathleen. As she stamped out into the foyer, Hopkins walked up beside her, opening his mouth to speak, but Kathleen whirled on him, snarling. "Hopkins, if you don't get out of my way, I'm gonna stick my gun so far up your ass it'll tickle your tonsils, and I _will _pull the trigger," she hissed. "Rapidly and repeatedly."

Hopkins stepped back, both hands upraised and a look of sheer distaste on his face. Kathleen brushed by him, bumping him roughly with her shoulder. Hopkins muttered at Dean, "You'd better get a leash on your woman, there. She's getttin' above her raising." Dean narrowed his eyes at the man, wanting nothing more than to knock the snark out of his mouth, but instead he started after Kathleen again.

He finally caught up with her as she strode back out of the church into the freezing air. Snow had begun to fall again, large white flakes swirling and floating on the currents of the wind. The sky was dark with blue-gray clouds. "Kathleen," called Dean, but she continued walking away from him, toward the truck. He ordered, "Kathleen, stop," and lunged forward to grab her by the elbow. She jerked away from him but stopped and turned to face him with arms crossed across her midsection. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing." Kathleen met his gaze with steely eyes. "Tired of looking at bodies."

"Bullshit." Dean glared at her. "You're not yourself. What's going on?"

Kathleen stubbed the toe of her boot against a chunk of ice and road salt, pulling her arms tighter against herself and shrugging. "I get a little irritable. They say it's from the head injury, that it kind of messes up your moods. It's nothing."

Dean shook his head and opened his mouth to retort, but his phone chirped at his hip and he snatched it out of his pocket. There was a text from Sam, only a few terse words. _Not a wreck. Benders. _ A chill gripped Dean by the back of the neck and shivered his spine. "What the hell is going on here?" he said, voice low, tight. "That guy's daughter didn't die in a car accident." Kathleen's face paled and her mouth tightened into a thin, white line. "It was them. They killed her. Why are you lying about it?" Dean couldn't suppress a shudder of anger and revulsion at the thought of the family that had taken so much from him…_Never should have come back here… _

Kathleen's face had taken on the look of a trapped animal, shifty-eyed and frightened, even dangerous, and Dean forced himself to soften his tone. "You know enough about hunting to have taken care of this by yourself. I've seen you do it." Dean looked at Kathleen but she stared over his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. "Why didn't you?" Her shoulders were tense, drawn up toward her ears as if she could disappear into herself, if only she could shrink in enough. "Kathleen."

She twitched at the name, ducked her chin. Despite the bitter cold, sweat was sheening the skin of her face like a ceramic glaze. "It's not them. It's not."

"Then who the fuck is it? Who are you protecting?" Frustration sent Dean's voice to a higher register, and he flapped his hands out as if he could wave away his confusion.

Kathleen caught the corner of her lip in her teeth, and a sudden rush of tears slicked her eyes. When she spoke her voice was a husky whisper, barely audible and thick with pain. "I think it's Riley."


	6. Chapter 6

**Writers block plus distraction by other fandoms is a very bad thing. So sorry for the wait...please review, it might kick my muse back into action...**

* * *

Dean felt the blood drain from his own face as he registered Kathleen's words, and his heart skipped. _No…come on, no…_

"I think it's my brother." Her voice was barely audible. "I think it's him." A breath caught in her chest and she gave a little dry hiccup that sounded more like a sob. She fisted her hands as if she could physically fight away the pain, digging her fingernails so deeply into her palms that it was as though she were trying to draw blood.

"Why? Why do you think that?" Dean's mind was racing, running over clues and scenarios and _goddammit, it couldn't be easy, could it, it always has to be something that hurts us inside and out…_

"Little things. A sound, or a smell…" Kathleen ran the ridge of her palm under her eyes, trying to press away the burn of impending tears. "Sometimes I smell tobacco….he used to chew, disgusting habit. I was always dogging him to quit, but he never did." She forced a rough, mirthless chuckle. "Sometimes I'll be in the bed at night and I'll wake up…and I'll see somebody standing at the end of the bed…just looking at me. I can't see his face, he's only a dark shadow, but it just _feels _like him, you know? It just feels like Riley." She still wouldn't look at Dean, but he couldn't miss the tear that tracked down her cheek and dripped from her chin. "I think he wants to hurt me." Her voice had gone quiet with disbelief.

"That doesn't make sense." Dean lightly touched her elbow. "He's your brother," he said gently. "He wouldn't be trying to hurt you."

"But it's my fault." A small shake of her head was the only move she made…she barely appeared to be breathing, still as death. "I should have looked harder. Should have looked longer. I gave up on him." She shuddered as if the words were causing her physical pain. "It's like…" She stopped, drew a breath. Her face looked gray, shadowed by her pain and the snow clouds. "It's like I should have died out there in that cage in the woods…and he's bringing justice, making it right."

Dean took Kathleen by the shoulders and turned her so that she faced him straight on. "Stop it. Now." His harsh tone startled her and she furled her brow. "You know good and well that's bullshit. Quit blaming yourself for something that you couldn't do anything to stop. All that does is hurt you." He shook her a little bit. "You have to stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone oughta be." Her face hardened and he forced himself to stop, breathe, think…He could almost hear Bobby's voice, _Don't put your shit on her, son, don't do that…_

"Still…" Dean softened his voice into a lower register, tempering it with understanding and concern. "You know how to fix it. You know how to stop it, why didn't you?"

She looked up at him, her face lined with the strain of emotion. "You're asking me why. Why didn't I go back into those woods, to that house, alone, to find my brother's bones out of all the bones that might still be out there." It was a statement, not a question, and it rang with incredulity that he would even ask her.

Dean's jaw tightened and his stomach clenched at the thought of venturing back to the scene of his nightmares, and he gave a little nod of understanding. "You're right. I'm sorry." He reached out and gripped her bicep, which was taut as a drawn bowstring as she clutched her arms tightly around her midsection. "But you know it has to be done. For his sake and everybody else's."

Kathleen looked away, her mouth puckering in. "I'm the only one left…my mom and dad are both gone. It's just me. And all the time I think, I'd give anything for one more day with Riley." She dropped her head, squeezed her eyes shut. "Even if it scares me, part of me is so glad to have even a whisper of him back." When she spoke again her voice was so soft that Dean had to duck his ear close to her lips to catch the words. "How am I supposed to burn my own brother?"

"I'm gonna help you." Dean's chest tightened again as a swell of sadness and affection swept over him. "We're going to do it together." He pulled her into a hug, aware of the cops loitering in the lot but not caring what they might think. "You're not alone. Don't you dare think that you're alone."

She lingered in his arms for a few short seconds, then pushed him away, not sparing a glance for the deputies who had by that time commenced to whispering behind their hands. She turned and walked back to the church, willing her spine to straighten and her eyes to dry, and by the time she marched back down the aisle toward the wreck of a man on the floor, she was once again a gimlet-eyed professional. _On the outside, anyway. Chin up, woman, hide all of it, swallow it down, suck it up…don't let the world hear you screaming inside…_

Sam greeted them with a worried glance but Dean shrugged away his concern, telegraphing with his eyes that all had been explained. Hopkins was crouched over the corpse, carefully placing the dead man's hands into brown paper bags and securing them with rubber bands. Another crime scene technician was photographing and then gathering up all the bits of bone and tissue and teeth that dotted the floor.

"Are you set here, Hopkins?" The detective just grunted affirmation and continued to process the dead man, but he didn't look up at Kathleen. She stopped short, set her jaw, waited a beat. _Fuckin' hate to do it…_ "I shouldn't have snapped at you." At that Hopkins did look up, brow wrinkling. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay," Hopkins shrugged, but one corner of his mouth quirked up into what would have to pass for a smile. "I've got this. You can take off if you want."

"Thanks." Kathleen took a long look at the corpse, at the ruined features and the staring empty eyes. "Just call me if you need anything." She turned away, hooking her satchel with her elbow, and retreated up the aisle, shoulders hunched as though under a great weight.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other and followed at a distance. Dean ducked his head, dropping his chin to his chest to muffle his voice, and murmured. "It's her brother."

Sam's mouth twisted into an 'o' of understanding. "Wow. That's gonna be a problem."

"No, really?" Dean tried to inject maximum sarcasm into the words, but he couldn't force it past the lump in his chest. He was suddenly so tired, exhausted, worn down to the bone with weariness. "We've gotta go back out there."

"Yeah." Sam gently bumped Dean with his shoulder. "But how are we going to find him? There could be a lot of bodies, God knows how many."

They stepped out of the church and Dean shivered, as much from dread as from the cold.

"I say we just torch the whole fucking forest," he growled. "Kerosene, gasoline, lighter fluid, napalm, fucking thermonuclear device."

"Much as I'd love it, I don't think that's feasible." Kathleen stood on the running board of her truck. She started to duck into the cab, but then stopped short and stepped back down onto the icy pavement. She looked at Sam and Dean in turn, searching their faces. "Are you sure about this?" There was a note of hope in her voice, a hope that there was some other solution, or that it was all a dark dream from which she would wake, gasping and panicked, but safe.

Sam's mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile, one filled with ill-hidden pity. "It's going to be okay." Kathleen gave a tiny nod and smiled, though it didn't dim the sadness in her eyes.

They climbed into the truck, silent now, each communing with their own sense of dread and the memories brought back in sharp relief by the notion of returning to those dark, deep, silent woods.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks ever so much to all who have reviewed so far...it really does spur me to write on when I might otherwise be too lazy to do so. Special thanks to Zatnikatel for letting me steal her canon. **

* * *

The only sound was the squeaking crunch of their boots in the snow. After a stop at Kathleen's house to gather supplies (a small arsenal, really, fit enough to start a war), they drove out to the now-snow-hidden two track that led deep into the woods, and at the end of which lay the burned out ruin of the Bender's ramshackle farmhouse.

The dark clouds had given birth to a heavy downfall of sleet, tiny wet flakes that were more rain than snow, which quickly soaked through their jeans and coats. Though Dean and Sam shivered under the onslaught, Kathleen marched resolutely forward as if unaware of the cold and the ice and the ever-darkening sky. Step after step, deeper and deeper into the forest.

The ruts of the road lay hidden by snow, drifted knee deep here and there. Only the gap in the trees, just wide enough for a truck or a van, led them on. The branches closed over the path, twining their naked fingers together to create a living tunnel. Occasionally a gust of wind would shriek through the trees, making the branches creak in protest, but otherwise it was silent as death.

Just when Sam was sure he could trudge no farther without his limbs freezing solid and breaking clean off like icicles, the lopsided façade of a weather-beaten barn hove into view. Dean stopped short, breath catching at the sight of where his nightmare had begun. His duffel bag slid from his shoulder and dropped, unheeded, to the ground. Memory after memory assaulted him, piling one on top of another until he wanted nothing more than to run, to haul ass back to town and clean out of Minnesota. All that remained of the farmhouse itself was a blackened concrete foundation and a few charred, broken beams crisscrossing in a jumbled pile. A wave of panic swelled in Dean's throat, tasting of bile and adrenaline, and he clutched unconsciously at Kathleen's elbow. She gently removed her arm from his grip, and put her palm into his. They stood for a few seconds, hand in hand, just staring. Remembering.

"Let's get it over." Sam's voice jarred them from their trance, and Dean nodded dazedly. Sam dumped his own pack on the ground, knelt in the snow, and dug through the bag until he came up with a large can of lighter fluid and a box of household salt. "All the evidence should have been taken away by the feds, but who knows what other stuff is buried around here that they didn't find." He glanced at Kathleen. "Did they ever identify Riley? Forensics or DNA or anything?" She just shook her head, mouth tightening into a thin white line. He grimaced apologetically. "Start with the barn."

Kathleen looked over at Dean, squeezed his hand. "Together, right?" He nodded and squeezed back, swallowing back his fear, banishing it to the pit of his stomach where it roiled and burned. He released her hand and ducked to pull a two-liter bottle of kerosene out of his duffel, and Kathleen retrieved a large Ziploc bag full of road salt.

The barn was dark and murky, and Dean had to flick on his flashlight to push back his fear. Terror niggled at the back of his mind, danger hid in every shadow. _Don't you dare…don't you dare, Lee._ The cages were gone, taken by the police no doubt, and there was no sign of the horrors that had been perpetrated in that dusty barn, but the memories that all three carried inside were more than enough. _Too much._

Sam began splashing lighter fluid around, liberally soaking a few bales of moldy hay that were stacked by the door. Dean followed suit, pouring kerosene around the perimeter of the walls, and Kathleen followed on, scattering handfuls of salt across the floor like a farmer sowing seeds. Dean found his breaths coming few and far between, as if holding his breath would ward off the presence he felt lurking in the shadows. _Just your imagination, knock it off, Dean…_

Sam flicked his lighter and touched it to the bales of hay, which caught light with a muffled _whoomph_.

And then all hell broke loose.

A shadow, thick and dark as pitch, appeared from nowhere and enveloped Sam. He fell backward, tumbling perilously close to the now-blazing hay. The fire spread up the walls with terrifying speed, consuming the dried and brittle wood with a ferocious roar. Sam managed to roll away from the inferno, shielding his face from the intense heat with his hands.

Dean screamed Sam's name and tried to race toward him, but he found his legs in a tangle and he fell, a heavy weight pinning him down against the floor. A wraith, black and shadowed, settled atop him, sliding up his legs toward his face, paralyzing him as it went. As it slid up over his face, it was as if he was suddenly struck blind, the darkness so black that he would have to stick a finger in his eye to see if his lids were open or not.

"Sam!" he howled again, trying to struggle away from the horror that was smothering him, but he was unable. He felt, rather than saw, a flash of movement, and suddenly Kathleen was there, swinging an iron pipe like a baseball bat and scattering the shadow like mist in the wind. But while the weight disappeared from Dean's body, Kathleen staggered back as if struck a heavy blow and she crashed against a stall with a sickening thud. The rotted wooden slats cracked and she crumpled with them, falling into the stall with arms and legs akimbo.

As Dean watched in breathless horror, still barely able to move, the shadow closed in on Kathleen. She groaned, trying to sit up, spitting out a mouthful of blood, and it stained her mouth like garish lipstick. The shadow loomed over her, spreading as if to swallow her, and she cringed away, lifting an arm to shield her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but a cold blast of wind stole her breath and she could make no sound. _No, please, Riley, don't…please…_A slashing pain tore across her shoulder and this time she did scream, a wail of pain and horror and rage. _Not like this…_

Dean forced his limbs to obey him and he managed to pull the pistol from his hip. He rolled onto his stomach, and from a prone position he sighted and blasted the shadow full on. There was an unearthly shriek, maybe the wind and maybe more, and the darkness evaporated in a swirling whirlwind.

Dean crawled to Kathleen's side and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her forward, and together they reeled out of the now-blazing barn, collapsing to the ground outside. Sam staggered out after them, coughing and scrubbing at his streaming eyes, and fell to his knees, heaving for breath. Dean called his name and Sam help up a hand, hacking up a mouthful of sooty phlegm. "M'okay," he rasped.

Dean dropped his forehead into the snow and took a few long breaths, then pushed himself to his knees and crawled to Kathleen's side. "Did it hurt you?" he asked stupidly, staring at Kathleen's bloody face.

"Chivalry in brass knuckles, that's you," wheezed Kathleen. "But your timing could have been better." She closed her eyes, wincing against the pain. "Thanks."

Dean thumbed the blood away from her lips. "It's the boots. Can't resist 'em."

Kathleen's laugh deteriorated into a wracking fit of coughs and she clutched at her side. When she finally caught her breath she moaned, "Maybe cracked a rib."

"You've got a nasty slash there too…" Dean softly touched the gaping wound on her shoulder, just above the swell of her tricep. She flinched away from his touch. "Pretty deep."

"Just get me up," she ordered in a shaking voice.

Dean snaked an arm behind her back and he helped her to her feet. "I can carry you," he offered, but she cast him a scornful look.

"It's my ribs, not my legs." But she didn't protest when Dean wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close to his hip and letting her lean on him. But as she tried to take a step she couldn't suppress a cry of pain.

Dean lowered her back to the snow. "Gonna have to wrap those ribs," Dean said apologetically. "You'll feel much better once we do, and we'll make better time getting back to the road."

Kathleen nodded, sucking in her lower lip. "Just don't use this as payback for the gintrap," she warned as Dean gingerly helped her out of her coat.

Dean smiled grimly. "You really were a butcher." He leaned across Kathleen's lap and pulled her duffel bag toward them, and retrieved a pack of heavy gauze. "Lose the shirt."

"Charming." Kathleen flinched again, unable to suppress a hiss of pain as she stripped off her t-shirt. "Don't get all handsy," she warned.

"I think we're way beyond that by now." Dean placed the end of the gauze against Kathleen's side. "Hold this." She pressed the fabric against her ribs and Dean began to wind it around her, pulling it tighter with each pass.

Kathleen gave a low groan and Dean glanced up to meet her pained gaze. He opened his mouth to apologize but she cut him off. "Just hurry up," she ground out.

Dean finished as quickly as he could, pulling the last pass tight and tying it off. He leaned back and regarded it with a critical eye. "It suits you. Very Sarah Connor."

Kathleen struggled to her feet. "Come on. Let's get the fuck out of here before that thing comes back." She started stumbling away from the burning barn, but Dean stopped her with a hand on her elbow.

"Might want your shirt." He snatched the shirt from the ground and slipped it back over her head. She groaned again as she threaded her arms through the sleeves.

"That's no ghost." Sam was still on his knees, sucking wind. Dean just nodded, helping Kathleen back into her coat.

"So what is it?" Kathleen clutched her arms tightly across her midsection to try and press away some of her pain.

"It's a shadow person." Sam pushed himself to his feet, listing slightly to port and succumbing to another wracking cough. "More than a ghost, less than a demon…"

"So it's not Riley?" A note of hope took Kathleen's voice to a higher register and she clutched at Dean's jacket.

Sam shook his head. "It still could be. They can be conjured through black magic, or they can be created by events of extreme physical or emotional trauma…" Sam knuckled his eyes, trying to rub away the sting of the smoke. "It's like the horror of the event gets poured into it, and all the pain and fear is caught in the shadow."

Kathleen paled, knees going weak, and she tipped sideways against Dean, nearly falling. He caught her and looped an arm around her waist, supporting her against his hip. "So all that's left of Riley is the fear and the pain…" she whispered.

"We don't know that. It could still be something else…" Sam coughed again, then started staggering away from the barn. "Come on."

Dean started to walk after him but Kathleen didn't follow, and she would have dropped into the snow if he hadn't stopped and caught her weight. Fear panged in Dean's chest as he looked at her blank and slack-jawed face. Her eyes were empty, vacant, staring at nothing. And all that Dean could think to do was scream. "Sam!"


	8. Chapter 8

**So, so many apologies for the delay in updating...RL has been kicking my ass...please don't let that stop you from reviewing. :(**

* * *

"Sam, help me!" barked Dean as he eased Kathleen to the snow. She folded like a wilting flower, sliding bonelessly down into Dean's lap.

Sam sprinted back, stumbling in the snow and nearly falling, and he knelt beside Kathleen, softly touching her cheek. She didn't respond. Her eyelids fluttered and her eyes rolled back a little, but her face remained blank. "Christ, she's having a seizure," Sam breathed.

"What do we do?" Dean pulled her up to his chest, cradling her head against his shoulder. "Do we put a stick in her mouth or something?"

"No…it doesn't look like that kind of seizure." Sam picked up Kathleen's limp hand and stroked it with his thumb. "Kathleen? You with me? Squeeze my hand, if you hear me." At first there was no response, then her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Sam's. "There, now. Good girl. Can you open your eyes for me?"

After a few seconds, Kathleen opened her eyes, gaze bleary, then squeezed them shut again, and her hands curled into white-knuckled fists. "Shit." Her voice was no more than a ragged whisper.

"Are you okay?" Sam laid his palm gently on her knee. She turned her face away from him.

The corners of her mouth curled down and she bit her lower lip to stop it trembling. "Seizure. Damn seizure." Her words came slow, slurred.

"Is it from your head injury?" A rush of guilt blazed through Dean's gut.

She nodded, a hard light suddenly gleaming in her eyes. "Tha's why they made me a detective. Can't have a fuckin' spastic patrol officer floppin' around on the road like a damn dyin' fish." The bitterness in her voice took Sam aback.

"Stop it," Dean interrupted harshly. "Stop talking about yourself like that."

Sam glanced back toward the barn, which was now fully engulfed. "We need to get out of here. That smoke is going to draw police and fire out here."

Kathleen nodded and started to push herself to her feet, but her knees gave out and she sank back into the snow with a grunt. Dean frowned. "I'm carrying you."

"The hell you are," retorted Kathleen, but she didn't have the energy to resist as Dean hitched her up piggyback. Trudging through the snow back toward the road was arduous, and several times Sam sank to his knees in hidden ruts, cursing wildly each time. Finally they spotted the Impala, and Dean felt a swell of giddy relief at the sight.

He lowered Kathleen to the ground and she sank to a seat on the bumper, lowering her head and resting her hands on her knees. Sam bent next to her, softly touching the nape of her neck. "You okay now?"

Dean fumbled in his pocket for the car keys but he dropped them, fingers clumsy with the cold. He snatched them back up and it took several attempts for his shaking hands to unlock the door. He fell into the front seat and jammed the key into the ignition, but as he turned it there was only a click. Disbelief prompted him to turn the key again, but with the same result, a hollow _tic tic tic, _and he slammed his palm against the steering wheel several times, bellowing, "Fuckin' dead battery! Fuck!"

"I don't think that's a coincidence." Sam's mouth was set in a grim line, and he had his EMF meter in his hand. All the lights were lit, and the meter was pegged. "We're in trouble."

Kathleen stared into the trees, face tight and tense. "There's a house a bit down the road. It'll be empty. The Franklins winter in Florida."

"Shit. Too late." Sam was staring back into the woods, and as Dean turned to look, he caught sight of a dark shadow darting from tree to tree, sometimes at ground level, sometimes high in the branches, always fast as lightning. "Gotta go."

Dean hiked Kathleen onto his back again and took off in a loping gallop. Sam followed closely behind, scanning the woods, pistol in hand, watching as the shadow trailed them, skimming through the trees like a wraith.

Dean stumbled in a snow-covered rut and fell ass over elbows, sending Kathleen skidding off his back. She yelped as she rolled on her wounded shoulder, but scrambled quickly to her feet. Dean struggled to his knees and reached for her as if to pick her back up, but she batted his hand away and grabbed his elbow, yanking him up and taking off at a sprint. Sam brought up the rear, firing into the trees whenever he saw the shadow shimmer against the snow, ever closer.

Scrambling and stumbling, panting and cursing, they pelted along the road until Kathleen caught sight of a small A-frame cabin, nearly hidden by a solid wall of pine trees. "Come on!" she shouted, skidding in a sharp turn. They darted up the snow covered drive, sliding to a halt at the front door, which was drifted nearly hip-deep. Dean started to dig into his pocket for a lockpick, but Sam brushed by him. "No time." With one hearty thrust of his boot, he kicked the door open. They all tumbled inside and Kathleen wedged her body against the door, while Sam and Dean rushed pell-mell around the cottage, pouring salt across every window and door.

As soon as he was convinced that the perimeter was secure, Dean fell to his knees, gasping, lungs burning from his sprint in the freezing air. Sam peeked out the front window and growled as he saw the shadow in the trees outside, motionless now as if standing vigil. Waiting for them to come back out.

"Yeah, we've still got company," he called over his shoulder, and he bent to dig through his duffel bag. Looking for something, anything that could give them the upper hand.

"Keep a close eye out." Dean helped Kathleen strip off her coat and t-shirt, and he grimaced at the blood that spouted fresh from her shoulder as he pulled the fabric away from the wound. He sucked a hiss through his teeth. "This is pretty deep. Don't know if I can stitch this up. Not quickly anyway." He glanced at Sam. "Unless." Sam just blanched.

"I don't like the sound of that." Kathleen looked warily at Sam, who just turned and stalked away, and they could hear him rummaging through cupboards and closets. Dean plucked a decorative dishtowel from a hook by the stove and smoothed it over Kathleen's shoulder, but the welling of the blood, shining crimson, did not slow.

Kathleen bit the corner of her lower lip, then asked quietly, "Do you think it's Riley?"

Dean sighed, dabbing at her wound. "I don't know. It could be, but so much weird shit has gone down in those woods, it could be anything."

Before Kathleen could answer, Sam reentered the kitchen, clutching a curling iron and looking exceedingly grim. Kathleen went pale and muttered, "Please tell me you're joking."

"It's not gonna get hot enough on its own, Sammy," murmured Dean. "Put it on the stove." Kathleen went whiter still and turned her face away as if not looking would end the nightmare. Sam sighed and obeyed, listening to the tick of the gas burner as it flared to life, and then he gently laid the metal of the curling iron across the flames. Dean ducked his chin so he could look in Kathleen's eyes. "It'll cauterize the wound. Stop the bleeding. It's the fastest way." His tone made it clear that some part of him hoped she would decline. "If I stitch it I'll have to do it in layers, which will take a long time. And hurt like a sunovabitch."

"Yeah, because slapping a hot iron on it is going to be a romp in the daisies." Kathleen ground her teeth as her eyes were drawn unwillingly toward the stove.

"We can go to the hospital." Dean turned to Kathleen, held forth a hand as though it would appease her.

"We don't have time," she snapped, "And you know it. That thing is waiting out there for us, and the longer we take, the more time it has to plan. Quit with the chivalry bullshit and let's get this over with."

Sam glanced at the iron, which was by now glowing orange, and with a scowl he picked it up off the burner, feeling the heat rolling back onto his hand from the red hot metal. "It's gonna leave a scar," he warned, hoping against hope that she would refuse, so he didn't have to do it.

"Yeah, it's gonna ruin my fuckin' pageant career," she retorted crabbily, clenching her jaw. "Just do it."

Dean sat down behind her, leaned back against the stove and wrapped his arm across her chest, pulling her tight against him. He burrowed his chin into her collarbone and whispered, "Just hold on. Hold my hand." She gripped his hand, digging her fingernails into his palm, and she let out a long and shaking sigh.

"Do it."

Sam took a deep breath of his own, wishing that he was anywhere else at this moment. But there was nothing else for it. He gripped the iron tight in his fist and pressed it to her shoulder, wincing at the sizzle of skin and the sudden stink of burning flesh. Kathleen gave a little squeal of pain and tried to buck away from the searing metal, but Dean pulled her closer to him, hooking one leg around her waist and holding her as still as he could. She groaned, clenching her jaw so hard that Dean could hear her teeth creak and grind against one another, so he grabbed a dishcloth from the stove door and pressed it to her mouth. She bit down on it, suppressing another moan, and stopped struggling, though her body was taut as a drawn bowstring in Dean's arms. "Hold on, Kath…just hang on, it's almost done," he whispered, his breath stirring the hair that curled around her ear.

After what seemed an eternity Sam finally pulled the curling iron away from her shoulder, his own breath heaving in his chest at the brutality he had just inflicted. Kathleen sagged back against Dean, gasping and choking back bile. Dean just held her, feeling her chest rise and fall with rapid breaths. Sam looked down at her, remorse twisting his stomach and making him nauseous, but her eyes were dry…no tears fell. She just gulped deep breaths, fought for control. _A breath in, hold it in, then exhale….and again…._

When she finally caught her breath, she hissed out, "Fuck the both of you." A semi-hysterical laugh bubbled out of Dean's chest and he clutched her close, pressing his face against her uninjured shoulder. "I'd love to see you guys, just once, just _one fucking time_, and not end up kidnapped or concussed or shot. I mean, _really._ You two bring new meaning to the word dysfunctional."

"Welcome to the wonderful world of hunting," Sam muttered, tossing the curling iron into the sink and scrubbing his hands on the seat of his jeans as if he could wipe away the tactile memory of what he had just done. He opened his mouth to apologize again, but his words were cut short by the sharp crash of breaking glass. Then darkness descended on him.


	9. Chapter 9

**I am soooo sorry for the delay in updating. I've been sick as a dog, and then Apolo Ohno distracted me. Please forgive...**

* * *

Kathleen's scream filtered through Sam's bewilderment and he was suddenly aware that he wasn't able to move, helpless as a pinned butterfly. He could feel the scratchy fibers of the woven rug against his face, but he was blind and breathless, smothering beneath the weight of the shadow that paralyzed him. He had bitten his tongue as he fell, and he could taste the salty tang of blood in his mouth as he tried desperately to draw a breath.

Dean scrambled sideways, cursing himself for having laid his gun on the counter, but before he could get his hands on it, Kathleen shouted, "Get down!" He dropped instinctively, hands over his head, but before he did, he caught sight of the grenade in her hands. She hooked the pin with her thumb and chucked the grenade into the far corner of the kitchen.

"What the fu…" Dean's shriek was cut off by the dull thud of a muted explosion, much less violent than he had expected, and a spray of rock salt peppered the walls and cabinetry, sounding like hail on a roof. There was a keening wail, like wind through naked trees, then total silence.

Dean peeked at Kathleen through his elbows as she crawled to Sam's side. "You okay?" she asked, gently helping him into a sitting position and brushing a few bits of salt from his hair. He turned his face away from her and spat out a glut of blood, then rubbed the crook of his elbow across his mouth and nodded.

"What the hell?!" Dean struggled to his feet, heart pounding. "What the hell?!" he repeated wildly as he tried to swallow back the adrenaline that was making his hands shake. He snatched his pistol from the counter and tucked it into his waistband, feeling immediately more secure with the cold metal like a talisman against the skin of his stomach.

"Thought you might like that." Kathleen grinned as she thumbed out a shard of salt that had embedded itself in her hand. "Just something I was mucking around with…replaced the powder with rock salt. The only explosive left in it is the charge." Her smile widened. "I made some with iron shot, too."

"Kathleen Fucking Hudak," mumbled Sam, scrubbing a palm over his eyes, trying to rub away the lingering sensation of helplessness that gripped him by the base of his skull.

"Hell yeah," Dean finished, shaking his head with a crooked smile. "Marry me."

Kathleen snorted a laugh, but then her face went a little grim. "So what is this thing? And why is it going after the families of the Bender's victims? And how do we kill it?"

Sam hitched a breath and spat again. "It could be a predator spirit, or it could be residual energy that has attached itself to the families for some reason."

Kathleen was quiet for a moment, then understanding softened her eyes. "Guilt." Her voice was subdued, sad. "It's attaching to their guilt."

Dean frowned and snatched Kathleen's shirt from the table, tossing it to her. "We need to get out of here. Don't know how long that thing will stay away, even if you did blow its ass up."

"Besides, with all the racket somebody is sure to have called the cops by now." Sam glanced at Kathleen.

"The Franklins have an old car that they use when they're here in the summer…they leave it in the barn." Kathleen gestured out the window. "Maybe it'll have enough gas to at least get us back to town."

"Yeah, if that friggin' shadow doesn't fry it like the Impala." Dean scowled, angry at the indignity visited upon his most prized possession. "She better be in one piece when we get back there." He shook off the thoughts. _Focus, dumbass._

Kathleen slipped back into her coat, her mouth tightening as the fabric rubbed against her burn. She sucked a breath in through her nose and softly blew it out, steeling herself, shoving the pain away. "We need to get rid of anything that shows we were here." She grabbed up the curling iron, which was still steaming and smoking with her blood, and ran it under the cold water tap until it cooled enough to jam into her duffel. Dean quickly sopped up the blood from the floor and threw the soiled towels into his own bag.

Sam struggled to his feet and moved to the window, cocking his head to the side. "I hear sirens."

"Sammy, go see if you can get that car in the barn running," ordered Dean. Sam nodded and started for the door, but Dean stopped him with a gruff, "Hey." He tossed his pistol and Sam deftly caught it, and jammed it into the back of his jeans. "Just fire if you have problems, we'll come runnin'." Sam nodded again and pulled the front door open slightly. After a few glances around, he stepped out onto the porch and sprinted for the barn.

The barn door was locked so he put his shoulder to it, shattering the doorjamb and nearly falling inside. He stopped short, though, his stomach tightening and his nerves pricking, as he caught a familiar scent in the musty air. _Blood. Lots of it._

He scanned the perimeter of the barn, every sense alert and tuned for danger. He caught sight of a dark stain on the concrete floor, seeping from behind a beat up old Cadillac, and he stepped cautiously forward. At the rear of the car there lay the body of an old man, his silver hair dyed crimson with blood, eyes half-lidded and staring with the blankness of death. His stomach was slashed open, intestines spilling from his abdomen in a tangled, gruesome mess. Sam swallowed back a wave of bile and knelt beside the body, carefully touching the hand. It was cold, stiff, frozen solid in the unheated building.

Sam turned away, only to see another body sprawled in a tangled heap beside a garbage bin. "The hell?" Sam breathed. The woman's throat was slashed wide open, a gaping wound that looked like a garish, evil grin. Even in death, terror was clear on her face, like a silent scream. Sam felt sick to his stomach as he turned away from her and pulled open the car door.

He glanced around and spotted a workbench, from which he retrieved a rusty screwdriver. He lay down across the front seat, and with a practiced hand he cracked the steering column with the screwdriver. But as he fiddled with the wiring, he suddenly heard the crunch of tires in the snow. At the same time his phone vibrated at his hip, with a text from Dean. _50. _ "Shit," hissed Sam, and he crawled out of the car, sliding silently to the door. A peek outside confirmed Dean's information. A pair of state troopers were striding toward the barn, following Sam's footprints, guns unholstered.

Sam looked wildly around, desperate for some escape. He could hear the voices of the approaching officers, so he made a wild leap to the wall, pushed off with his foot, and grabbed one of the rafters, swinging himself up into the shadows.

The troopers cautiously pushed open the broken barn door, guns at the ready. Without speaking they separated, each skulking along the walls, checking every niche and cranny. Finally the older of the two called, "Clear," and holstered his pistol. "Jesus." He knelt beside the corpse of the old man, almost directly beneath Sam. He was so close that Sam could see the triple sergeant's stripes on the cop's shoulder.

"Got the missus over here, she's dead too," the other officer called, staring down at the female victim. "What the hell happened here?"

"I dunno, but it happened a while ago. They've been dead a good time, I'd say." The sergeant stood, shaking his head. "The cold stopped them decomposing, but I'd call it at least a month." He keyed his radio. "Central, from 77."

His radio hissed back, "Go ahead, 77."

"Need you to start me DB on a rush. Got two victims here, both 10-45." The sergeant stared down at the dead man, his face grim. "Looks to be 187."

"What is goin' on around this town, man?" The younger cop gestured helplessly. "People dropping like flies, murders and suicides and disappearances…it's like…"

"Like the place is cursed," interrupted the sergeant. The other officer just nodded.

Sam crouched low in the rafters, balanced on the balls of his feet and steadying himself with one hand. The troopers were both leaning against the wall, shooting the breeze and waiting impatiently for the detectives. Frustration and a disconcerting sense of being trapped gnawed at Sam's chest and he shifted backward slightly, seeking deeper shadows, but as he did the rafter below him have a mighty creak of protest.

All the chatter below ceased instantly and the gazes of both officers flew upward. Sam froze, praying frantically to whoever might be listening that the shadows would keep him hidden. He tried to shrink slowly back farther into the darkness, but as he did, gravity and bad luck conspired against him. His shoe nudged against an exposed bolt, shifting him off balance, and suddenly he was much less concerned about being seen than he was about the fact that he found himself in midair with the floor rushing up to meet him.

Sam managed to twist in the air, trying to get his feet under him, but, not being a cat, he couldn't quite complete the rotation. He landed hard on his shoulder and he groaned as he felt the joint pop out. The pain became less important when he looked up to find two pistols pointed in the general vicinities of his head and chest. The younger trooper kneeled, a little forcefully in Sam's opinion, on his shoulder and yanked his arms back to cuff him. A little squeal of pain escaped Sam as his shoulder popped back into the socket.

"You've got some explaining to do, son," the sergeant said grimly. He ran his hands quickly over Sam's body, but stopped short when he came across the handgun. He yanked it out of Sam's jeans and handed it back to the other officer. "If you've got anything else on you, you need to let me know now," he warned. Sam just shook his head, his heart and his mind both racing. The sergeant finished patting him down and then he heaved Sam to his feet. "You have the right to remain silent. And between you and me, I'd suggest you use it."


	10. Chapter 10

**Not much to say. I suck at life AND at updating. Sorry for the wait.**

* * *

Dean's vision was framed by the eyelets of the kitchen curtains, but his view was clear enough as he watched the two police officers frogmarch a handcuffed Sam toward their patrol car. "Shit," he hissed. Sam was steadfastly refusing to look at the house, eyes forward, face blank. "More problems."

Kathleen stood on tiptoes to peer over Dean's shoulder, and he could smell both the scents of her perfume and her charred skin. "Dammit. Frying pan to the fire." She huffed once, drawing her palm along the curve of her jaw, trying to think around the throbbing in her shoulder.

"Well, get out there and clear it up," Dean whispered, jerking his thumb toward the door.

Kathleen pulled a face. "So I get to explain why we burned down the Benders' barn and broke into the Franklins' house? Terrific." She frowned, then shook her head. "We'll have to deal with it back at the station. I'll pull some strings, tell some stories."

Dean scowled, anxiety bubbling like acid in his stomach as he watched the younger officer lean Sam chest-first against the car and pat him down. "They're not taking him back to the station. He's got murder warrants, for Christ sake."

Kathleen opened her mouth to argue but was cut off by a sudden howl of agony and the sharp reports of gunshots. Not even taking the time to curse, Dean bolted for the front door, nearly knocking Kathleen down, and he darted out into the snow with her close on his heels.

The police sergeant was sprawled out on the ground, his blood spreading through the snow like a flash flood, eyes staring wide at the sky, their life-spark already gone. His throat was torn open in a gaping wide maw, his spine glinting white through the gore. The other officer was stumbling backward, pistol in hand, staring wild-eyed as the shadow flashed toward him, but it passed him by, slamming into Sam and knocking him sideways.

Sam landed awkwardly, knee torqued beneath the bulk of his weight, and he roared at the pain of a tearing pop, deep inside the bones and ligaments. He tumbled forward, face first, and got a mouthful of snow, unable to catch himself _what with the goddamned handcuffs and all, Dean, help!!_

He heard, rather than saw, Dean fire several shots, howling, "The hell you will!" The shadow flashed away from Sam, away from the sting of bullets, flitting up into the tree branches where it perched like a giant, hunching black crow. Just watching, waiting. Kathleen raised her own pistol one-handed, and two more shots sent the spirit dancing back into the trees, where it disappeared into the shadows of the forest.

"Sam!" Kathleen ran toward the car after Dean. The young police officer whirled to stare at her with wide, frightened eyes. His blond buzz cut did nothing to soften the harshness of his hawk-like nose or his hooded eyes, but the fear was clear on his face and he looked oddly like a little boy. Sam was on his face in the snow, still handcuffed, struggling like an overturned turtle as he tried to right himself. The officer bent and grabbed at Sam's arm, hoisting him to his feet and half-dragging, half-carrying him back behind the car. He dropped Sam back down to the ground and Sam curled up, groaning and clutching at his leg.

Dean and Kathleen skidded up to him, and when the young man saw the pistol in Dean's hand, he immediately brought his gun to bear between Dean's eyes. "Drop it, now!" he roared, the strength of command in his voice a surprise given the shaking of his hands. "Drop it!"

Kathleen immediately slapped the man's hands down, barking, "No, Gamble," and she knelt next to Sam. "We have to get out of here."

"But the Franklins, and the Sergeant…" protested the young officer, but Sam cut him short.

"They're dead." The words came out more harshly than Sam intended, but the pain in his knee was more than he could force politeness around. "And we will be too if we don't get out of here."

Kathleen stared down at Sam with shock in her eyes. "Wait, the Franklins?"

Sam immediately regretted blurting the news out, but he just gestured toward the barn. "In there. They've been dead for a while now." A spasm of pain creased the skin on Kathleen's brow and she closed her eyes for a moment, fighting back a swell of panic.

"What the hell is that thing?" gasped Gamble in a tone that implied he was losing his battle with hysteria. He didn't holster his gun, but he didn't look again at Dean, apparently trusting to Kathleen's judgment. Instead he stared into the trees, eyes darting to and fro as he searched the darkening woods.

"In layman's terms?" Kathleen glanced at Dean. "A ghost."

Gamble shot her an incredulous look. "Come again?"

"That's what she said," muttered Dean. He quickly dropped the clip out of his pistol and slapped in a fresh one. The action snapped shut with a click that seemed to echo in the winter air and he felt immediately more secure now that he had a full magazine in the gun. "You okay, Sammy?"

Sam grunted as he shifted, sending another bolt of pain shooting from his knee and up his thigh. "No. Knee is fucked." He found that he was shivering, both from cold and from pain, and he tried hard to still his body, to regain control.

Kathleen turned back to Sam and reached for his leg, but she was startled by Gamble's sudden, sharp intake of breath. She whirled just in time to see the shadow darting to envelop her.

The spirit hit her like a freight train, sending her tumbling back with ragdoll arms and legs. She landed hard, knocking her wind out in a pained _ooph_, and found to her panic that she couldn't draw in another breath. A crushing weight settled on her chest, pinning her into immobility. Pitch blackness swirled across her vision, obscuring the trees and the snow and the sky, until she was blind to all but the darkness. A gust of hot, sour wind brushed her face, startling her, then terrifying her as she realized what it was. _A breath._

As she struggled for air, for escape, the darkness before her suddenly began to change, shift, coalesce and brighten until she could see it. She could see him.

His rotting, tobacco stained teeth jutted from pitted, blackened gums like the pillars at Stonehenge. A bullet hole drilled a tunnel right between his eyes, and maggots lingered there, nibbling at the shredded tatters of gangrenous skin and brain matter that ringed the wound. His eyes were clouded, seemingly sightless. Kathleen cringed away from his fetid breath and he grinned, his tongue glistening through the gaps in his teeth. Kathleen tried to gasp, to scream, but the paralyzing shadow was smothering her, silencing her.

"_Oh, you're a pretty one," _breathed the spirit, stirring the hairs that curled around the lobes of Kathleen's ears, and she would have shivered if her body would only cooperate. _"I'ma enjoy you, yes indeed." _ The face leaned close, cracking lips nearly brushing her cheek, and she felt his long, ragged fingernails rake slowly across her throat. _"You're gonna scream for me."_

The sudden concussion of a large caliber pistol nearly shattered Kathleen's eardrums, and she suddenly found she was able to add to the noise with a shrill scream. The crushing weight lifted from her body and she gasped a loud, desperate breath into her empty lungs. She felt strong hands grip her under the arms and drag her backward and she screamed again as the fingers squeezed her burned flesh. The swirling darkness receded from her vision and she found that Gamble was kneeling behind her, his forearm wrapped protectively across her chest. He had his pistol in his other hand, finger inside the trigger guard.

"Jesus Christ," hissed Gamble. "What the fuck is this?!"

"Time to run," Dean barked. He hauled Kathleen to her feet and gave her a shove toward the woods. He turned to Sam's side and slung an arm around his waist. Gamble ducked under Sam's other shoulder, and the three of them took off in an awkward five-legged gait, stumbling and slipping, tumbling and tripping, through the snow into the deeper words, dodging fallen snags and broken limbs, trying to keep up with Kathleen.

For her part, Kathleen ran like she never had, as if she could outrun the memory of his rotting fingers and his rancid breath and his maggot-eaten visage and the hate in his eyes. She ran until her legs and lungs burned, unaware of the briars catching at her jeans and tearing them. Her battered ribs seared in her guts, stabbing pain that throbbed in unison with her pounding heartbeat. She ran until her legs failed her and she caught her toe on a stump, and she went sprawling into the snow in a small clearing.

Dean nearly tripped over Kathleen and had to awkwardly vault her, letting go of Sam and skidding to a halt. He doubled over, sucking frigid wind into his burning lungs. Kathleen was on her hands and knees in the snow, panting, retching. Gamble eased Sam to a seat against a tree, and then dropped to a knee at Kathleen's side. "You okay?"

Dean and Sam were both on high alert, scanning the trees with pistols in hand, but Dean's eyes consistently flicked back to Kathleen. "Kathleen," he called in a low voice. "What is it?" His heart clutched in his chest, both with fear and with pity, so clear was the pain and fear in her face. _Don't let it be. Come on, cut us a break, for god's sake…_

Kathleen hiccupped a cough, almost unaware of Gamble awkwardly rubbing small circles on her back. "It's him," she sputtered, her breath catching in a near-hysterical gasp. Her gaze found Dean and he was shocked by the look in her eyes. "Dean, it's him…"


	11. Chapter 11

**Apparently muscle relaxers help me write, because amid my massive back spasms, I've been writing like crazy...Wonder if any of this will seem coherent once I'm sober again???**

* * *

Dean's heart started hammering a drumbeat in his chest and his throat tightened. "Lee?" His voice was barely a whisper and he would have broken into a cold sweat if his pores weren't frozen-the-fuck shut. He gripped his pistol tighter, his knuckles whitening with the strain.

Kathleen shook her head. "It's the dad. " Her chin quivered and she gnawed on her bottom lip. Dean felt a surge of relief, followed quickly by a stronger surge of guilt. _Not Lee. But still bad._

Sam made a sound of frustration. "Please tell me that you know where the old goat is buried," he rasped. His hands were clutched white-knuckled around his knee. "Fuckin' Benders, man."

"Little Swan Cemetery, would be my guess." Kathleen knuckled at her eye. "It's where the indigents are buried, anyway." She glanced at Gamble. "Remember the Benders case?" His eyebrows quirked and his mouth formed a little 'o' of understanding.

"Okay, so here's the deal." Dean glanced at Gamble. "What's your name, kid?"

"James." Gamble stood, brushing snow from the knees of his cargo pants.

Dean nodded. "Right. Jimmy, you and I…"

Gamble cut him short, quietly but firmly. "It's James."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Right." He cut his eyes sideways toward Sam. "James, you and I are going back to the Franklins to grab our gear and supplies. Kathleen, you stay here with Sam. We'll be back in a flash, then we'll head to the cemetery and fry his ass." Gamble glanced at Kathleen for confirmation but she just nodded, still chewing absently at the side of her mouth. Dean tossed a second pistol to Sam. "You got this, Sammy?" Sam, now unable to speak around the pain in his knee, and the dull throb in his shoulder, just gave a thumbs up and a tight smile.

Gamble switched out the clip in his pistol, smartly slapping in a fresh magazine with a smack that almost echoed in the trees. He crouched next to Kathleen again, angling his body so that his back was to the brothers. "You sure about this?" he asked, sotto voce.

"No. But those two are the experts." Kathleen reached out and grasped Gamble's forearm. "If anybody can get us out of here, it's them." Gamble tightened his jaw and nodded, then stood and moved to Dean's side.

"We'll be right back." Dean caught and held Kathleen's gaze, trying to transfer some hope and strength with his eyes. "I promise."

"You'd better," she answered, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She moved to position herself directly opposite Sam, so that between the two of them they had a 360 degree view of the area.

Dean returned Sam's upturned thumb with an extended finger of his own, and he turned back toward the house, following the ragged trail they had cut through the snow in their wild flight. With one more glance at Kathleen, Gamble trotted after him, his boots crunching through the icepack of more virgin snow.

Together they skulked along at a slow jog, back the way they had come, each scanning the trees like their heads were on swivels. Dean stole a look at Gamble, then said in a low voice, "Can I ask you something?" Gamble didn't reply, just nodded, still staring into the branches and the bracken. "How long have you known Kathleen?"

Gamble puffed out a breath, considering. "About three years now. She was my FTO at the Sheriff's Department, before I hired in with the State Troopers."

"When did she start to change?" Gamble shot Dean a quizzical look, and Dean shrugged. "She's just…different now than she used to be."

Gamble returned his gaze to the woods, sweeping the trees with his pistol as he jogged. "Um. I'd say maybe five, six months ago. She just seemed to get…" He stopped speaking, searching for the word he wanted. "I don't know. Angrier. Harder."

He opened his mouth to continue, but Dean stopped him with an upheld hand. Gamble immediately tensed, hunching into a crouch, gun at the ready. Dean turned and found Gamble's eyes, then held up his hand again, pointing toward the house. Gamble nodded, and as soon as Dean clenched his hand into a fist they both bolted from the woods towards the A-Frame.

Dean was first through the still-open door, but Gamble was right on his heels, slightly wild-eyed but in control. "Grab salt, and lighter fluid, or booze, anything that'll burn," ordered Dean. Gamble started rummaging through the cupboards and tossing items to Dean, who jammed them into the duffels that he and Kathleen had so hastily abandoned on the kitchen floor.

"At least Mister F was a drunk with good taste," Gamble commented as he hefted a fifth of Armadale vodka toward Dean.

"You got any firepower in your squad car?" Dean asked.

Gamble nodded. "We've got an AR 15 out there." Dean gave the thumbs up, and Gamble darted out the door.

Dean continued to scramble for supplies and gear, tossing a box of matches at his duffel, but a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eyes sent his senses into high alert. Before he could find his voice to yell for Gamble, it was on top of him, smothering him with the weight of ten men in a dogpile. His vision went black as pitch, but the darkness seemed to throb, pulsing in time with Dean's heart, and he grew painfully aware of an increasing pressure in his groin, like a squeezing hand. The shadow began to swirl and take shape, coalescing until Dean was looking into the face of his worst nightmare, his captor, his tormentor. _Lee._

Panic boiled up as bile in the back of Dean's throat and he wanted to scream, to fight, to run, but his body wouldn't cooperate, seemingly complicit in this nightmare. Lee seemed to bend closer, every detail of his scruffy face clear, from his ragged whiskers to the blackheads scattered across his nose. "Oh, this is sweet," breathed Lee, glee in his voice. "Knew you'd be back for more, boy. You can't stay away, no siree."

Pain seared across Dean's midsection and he felt the scalding heat of a flood of blood wash across his belly. He would have screamed, had he been able, but he managed only a gurgling wet burble. It was as though his insides were being rearranged, wrenched and torn by invisible scalpels, an evisceration by unseen hands_. _The tiny part of his brain still capable of rational thought amid the agony asked, _is this what the hellhounds will feel like?_

Lee's tongue flicked from between his dry lips, nearly grazing Dean's cheek, and he seized Dean roughly by the chin, twisting his neck and pulling him upright. Lee's hand was sandpapered with callous and his nails bit into Dean's skin. "You're in a pretty mess now, boy." Dean somehow managed a gasp and a stifled howl of pain. "Oh, he doesn't like that, does he? Just you wait." Lee grabbed Dean by the hair and cuffed him in the head, sending stars across Dean's vision. He tasted blood spurt in his mouth as a tooth jiggled loose, and he spat, trying not to choke as Lee pummeled and shook him.

There was a sudden, welcome thunder of gunfire, and a loud scream that Dean wasn't sure came from himself or from Lee. He opened his eyes to see Gamble standing in the doorway, rifle tucked against his shoulder, staring saucer-eyed at him. "What…the fuck took you…so long…" Dean gasped out, rolling onto his side, curling in on himself with agony.

Gamble didn't answer, but dropped to a knee beside Dean, grasping him by the bicep. When he saw Dean's stomach he stopped short, gasping in a shocked voice, "Fuck me." He stared down, openmouthed, as Dean's hand gripped his abdomen so tightly that his knuckles turned white beneath the slick of glossy blood on his skin. Gamble took a few shaking breaths. "Jesus. You're losing a lot of blood, man. This is bad."

Dean wanted to make a crack along the lines of _thanks, Captain Obvious, _but he could only suck wind. "Gotta…get back to Sam…and Kathleen…"

"I don't think you're walking anywhere," Gamble muttered. He reached over and grabbed a towel from the oven door, and pressed it against Dean's stomach, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He grimaced as the towel soaked through and stained his hands crimson, but he didn't let go. "I can only hump one pack out of here if I've gotta carry you too," warned Gamble. "Out of this gear, what's most important?"

"S'…s'all important," slurred Dean. His vision blurred and cleared, the blurred again, as his body fought to adjust to his lost of blood.

Gamble clicked his tongue with frustration. "What are we gonna use to kill this sonuvabitch?"

"Salt. Fire." Dean's eyelids flickered and his breath hitched. Gamble grabbed him lightly by the chin and forced Dean to look him in the eyes.

"Nope, no passing out on me. Hold this." Gamble placed Dean's hands over the towel, then quickly dumped both packs on the floor and reloaded one with salt, booze, and as many weapons as he could cram into it. He then hurried to the closet and rummaged around until he came out with a garish flowered bed sheet. He quickly tore a wide strip of fabric free, then looped an arm around Dean's back and hoisted him into a seated position. "Gotta wrap this," Gamble panted, swinging the torn sheet around Dean's chest and pulling it tight. "Hang on, man, just hang on," he added quietly when Dean couldn't swallow a harsh cry. "Almost done."

As Gamble pulled the last pass tight and tied it off, Dean sagged suddenly backward, nearly clocking his head against the table, had Gamble not caught him. "Shit," hissed Gamble. "Don't do this, man, Hudak'll kill me." He punched his fist against his thigh in frustration, but then took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Okay. Got this."

He grabbed Dean by the wrists, pulled him into a sitting position, and tried not to notice how Dean's head lolled back lifelessly. Gamble bent, tucked his shoulder tight under Dean's pelvis, laced an arm between his legs, and with a mighty heave, yanked him forward. "Mary, fulla grace," he grunted as he hefted Dean's weight up over his shoulder. "Time to lay off the hohos, bro." He staggered beneath the weight for a moment, then found his center of gravity and began to run, as quickly as he could manage, back along the now-twice-broken trail, back to Sam and Kathleen.


	12. Chapter 12

**Nothing exciting here, other than it's the first day of spring and it's snowing. Frick. Please review, it may warm my frozen soul.**

* * *

They heard Gamble before they saw him, heard him staggering through the trees, tripping on branches and over his own feet. Kathleen sighted her pistol in on the sound, nerves pricking and stomach panging, but she was on her feet in an instant when she saw Dean's limp form slung over Gamble's shoulder. The young officer dropped to his knees as he staggered into the clearing, nearly bashing himself in the chin with the butt of his rifle, and he let Dean slide gently off his back into the snow.

"What the hell happened?!" A rush of fear burned in Sam's chest and he forgot his pain as he dragged himself over to his silent brother, unheeding of his injured leg trailing uselessly behind. Dean's shirt and coat were dark with blood, and his skin was a disconcerting shade of pale. Sam softly pushed Dean's sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead and to his surprise Dean opened his eyes, gazing blearily at Sam's face with a glassy, pain-filled stare.

"It came back," puffed Gamble, shrugging the duffel off his back and rotating his aching shoulders. His own coat was stained from shoulder to waist with Dean's blood, and there was a crimson smear on the skin of his neck. He pointed at the bag, panting, "I threw the first aid kit from my squad in there…so you could fix him up…" He bent at the waist and planted his hands on his knees, just breathing.

Dean rolled his head slightly, eyes searching for Kathleen. When he found her, his brow furrowed and he wheezed, barely audible, "Lee." Sam's chest tightened and he suddenly felt that he might vomit. He turned away from Dean and dug the first aid kit out of the duffel bag, more to stop his hands shaking than anything else, as if the familiar routine of patching up Dean's wounds would kill his fear.

"No, Dean, it's not Lee. It's the dad, remember? It's Pa Bender," Kathleen tried to soothe Dean, leaning close so he could see her face, and tenderly touching the tense curve of his shoulder. She smiled down at him, but shot a sideways look at Sam, murmuring, "He's in shock."

"'m not in shock, yer in shock," slurred Dean. "'s Lee." He tried to sit up, groaning with the effort, but Sam pushed him back gently, held him down. "Geddof me…"

Gamble turned to Kathleen and softly touched her elbow. "My patrol car wouldn't start. I tried to raise medic on the radio, even tried my phone, but all I get is static." He huffed a frustrated sigh, watching as Sam untied Dean's bed-sheet bandage. "Maybe it's the snow, I don't know."

"It's not the snow," snarled Sam. "It's that Bender, whichever one it is." His voice was terse, cut sharp like glass by tension and fear. He supposed he should feel sorry for snapping at somebody who had no clue about what they were up against, but he couldn't bring himself to, not while his brother was leaking like a sieve. "How far is it to that cemetery?"

Kathleen frowned. "A mile and a half, maybe two." She sat down behind Dean and pulled him into her lap, propping him up so that Sam could pass a pressure bandage around his back. His head lolled back against her shoulder and she softly rested her cheek against his. His skin was cold and she shivered.

"And fat lot of good Dean and I'll be," Sam snorted. "Neither of us can walk. You and Gamble should…"

Kathleen cut him short, barking, "We're not leaving anybody behind. We shouldn't have separated in the first place, and now look." She ran a hand across Dean's cheek and he moaned, fluttering between consciousness and oblivion, but he pressed into her touch as though seeking comfort. Sam scowled, starting to protest, but Kathleen skewered him with a frigid look and snapped, "Don't you bitchface me, Sam Winchester. We're staying together."

"We should head back to town," interjected Gamble, frowning. "Let's get somewhere safe and regroup." He glanced down at Dean, eyes clearly showing his fear that Dean wouldn't last long in the cold.

Kathleen gave Gamble a harsh glare. "We'll never make it back to town. That thing will pick us off one by one. The only chance we have is to kill it now." She winced as Sam tied off Dean's bandage with a too-sharp-jerk and Dean gave a strangled little yelp. "Easy, Sam."

"Goddammit," growled Sam, fisting his hands until the knuckles whitened. "This fucking town, man, what the fuck? Just nuke it and call it a day…"

Gamble nudged Sam with his elbow, breaking into his rant. "If I carry your brother, can you can manage to lean on Kathleen and sorta hop?" When Sam looked skeptical, Gamble added, "What choice do we have?"

In reply, Sam pushed himself upright, grunting as his knee panged. "We don't have one." He pulled his coat off and wrapped it around Dean, zipping it to his chin. "Gear up." He jammed the first aid kit back into the duffel bag and swung it over his back, hopping sideways in the snow and nearly falling, but Gamble caught him with an outstretched hand, steadied him.

Kathleen shimmied beneath Dean's weight, wrangling him so that Gamble could sling him up piggyback. "Keep your eyes open," she murmured, taking the rifle from Gamble. "That thing could be anywhere."

Gamble nodded grimly, then muttered, "You and I are gonna have a serious conversation when this is all over. You know that, right?" He shifted Dean on his back, trying not to jostle him, and wrapped an arm backward around Dean's thigh. With his free hand he unholstered his sidearm.

Kathleen moved to Sam's side and ducked under his arm, lacing a hand around his waist. "You ready?"

Gamble hitched Dean further up his back, flinching as Dean gasped out a groan. "Hold tight, bro." Dean laced his arms weakly around Gamble's neck and dropped his head to rest on his forearm. At a grim nod from Kathleen, the ragtag group staggered off into the trees, Sam leaning heavily on Kathleen's shoulder.

Snow began to fall more heavily, large flakes that would have been pretty if viewed from indoors with a hot toddy. But out amongst the increasing wind, visibility quickly dropped until Kathleen could barely see five feet forward, so thick was the wall of blowing snow. Before long, she found herself clutching at Dean's pant leg so that she wouldn't lose sight of him and Gamble. Soon all she could hear was the roar of the wind in the naked branches, shrill and sharp like the scream of some far off creature.

The cold seemed to wrap around Kathleen's chest and squeeze her lungs, every breath burning. A shiver started deep in the core of her body, cramping and spreading outward, creeping up her arms and down her legs until her whole body was faintly vibrating. Sam, obviously feeling her trembling, tucked himself in closer, shielding her from the wind and trying to fold around her to share some heat, but this only slowed the pace of his hopping gait.

Kathleen saw Gamble turn back toward her, shouting something, but his words were torn away by the wind. She stepped close to him and he bent his head, his breath warm on her ear. "How far?" he hollered, and rather than answer, Kathleen just held up one finger and mouthed _one mile._

Gamble scowled and knelt, pulling Kathleen and Sam down with him, folding them into a huddle. "We're not going to make it, the way we're going," he yelled, straining his voice against the screaming wind. "Between the cold and Dean's blood loss, this storm is gonna kill us, Katie."

"We're not splitting up," retorted Kathleen, but Sam put a firm hand on her shoulder.

"He's right." Sam shrugged the duffel bag off his back. "The quicker we can make the cemetery and end this, the better." Kathleen shook her head, but Sam gave her a hard stare. "Gamble and I will go on to the cemetery and flame this fucker. You're uninjured and in the best shape to protect Dean."

"Sam," Kathleen started to argue.

"Stop." Dean's weak voice, barely audible, stopped them all short. "Jimmy's right." Gamble frowned but didn't object to the nickname, just leaned closer into the huddle so the others could hear Dean more clearly. "Gotta finish this fast. 'f Sam'n'Jimmy can run, they should go." Gamble and Sam glanced at Kathleen and found her staring hard at Dean's eyes, tightlipped, as if having a silent conversation with him. Her face seemed to have aged in an instant, furrowed deep with frown lines.

After a few seconds she and Dean apparently reached an unspoken agreement because she finally looked away, nodding slowly. "Leave the 45 and a box of the salt," she ordered. "And there should be a length of iron chain in there, leave that."

Gamble carefully slid Dean off his back and gently propped him up against a jagged tree stump. "I ran an eight minute mile in the academy," he assured Kathleen with a grin, shrugging out of his coat and draping it around her shoulders. It was warm with his body heat, but the cold of Dean's now frozen blood tickled at the bare skin on her neck. "It'll be slower with the gimp there, but we'll be fast, I promise."

Sam bitchfaced at Gamble, but handed Kathleen a 45 handgun, then a smaller Glock for good measure. "Keep your eyes open." He turned toward Dean, face grim, and opened his mouth to speak.

Dean stopped him with an upheld hand, stared hard at him for a second. "Be quick. 'n be careful."

Sam forced a false smile and hopped sideways to swing an arm over Gamble's shoulders. Gamble wrapped an arm around Sam's waist and they started off at a fast clip, Sam bouncing along on tiptoe. Without any backward looks they disappeared into the gale of blowing snow, and then all Kathleen could hear was the wind.


	13. Chapter 13

**Sorry for the delay, real life is a whirlwind right now...please review, tho, pretty please...**

* * *

Kathleen stared into the swirling snow, as though if she concentrated hard enough Sam and Gamble would reappear, triumphant and safe and hopefully bearing hot chocolate with a nice healthy dash of rum in it. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of Gamble's coat and zipped it, tucking her chin into the collar and catching a whiff of his cologne. She turned to Dean, squinting in the wind, and folded to a seat at his side. He was shivering, skin paling to a near-blue hue, so she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him against her, briskly rubbing her hands up and down his back, trying to chafe some warmth into him and to ignore his teeth chattering in her ear. His eyes were closed, snowflakes fringing his eyelashes like ice diamonds.

"No sleepin', Deano," Kathleen whispered against his ear, taking his frigid hands in her own and blowing on them. She leaned back against the tree stump, pulling Dean along with her. "The boys'll be back before we know it."

Still huddling against Dean, Kathleen unlaced her boot and pulled off her heavy wool sock, then jammed her naked foot back into the boot. "What're you doin'?" mumbled Dean muzzily, and she forced a grin.

"Improvising." She dumped a generous portion of rock salt into the sock and knotted it so a hard, heavy lump dangled in the toe. She twirled it in her hand like a wooly mace, but at the look on Dean's face she began to cackle. "I've lost it, huh."

"Yeah," Dean wheezed, holding his abdomen with white-knuckled strength. "You really have, girl."

"Mother Mary, every time you come around I lose another piece of my mind." Kathleen tossed the sock down into the snow and leaned into Dean, pulling him into an embrace, half for warmth and half for a sense of safety. "Guess we can't do anything but wait." She looked up through the naked tree branches, barely able to see the steel-gray sky behind the eddies of falling snow, and she closed her eyes, feeling the flakes fall and melt to tiny teardrops on her cheeks and eyelashes. "You know, I pretty much grew up out here in these woods…never thought I'd ever have to be afraid of anything here." A strange sadness crept through her chest as she said the words, as if she had suddenly lost a little part of herself, and a lump of a sob tried to force its way into her throat. She swallowed hard, willing herself to remain dry-eyed.

"'d have liked to see you as a kid," Dean slurred, pressing closer to Kathleen, snuggling in like a child against its mother. "Bet you were a tomboy."

Kathleen smiled. "Yeah, I was. Drove my poor mom crazy. She wanted a frilly girl but she got me. I spent all my time tagging after Riley. We were little terrors, up every tree and down every gulley 'til we knew these woods like we knew our own names. Fishing, building forts, playing capture the flag…you name it. I've probably still got dirt under my fingernails from those days." Dean shuddered in her arms and she wrapped him closer, trying to fold herself around him, to protect and comfort him.

"Most big brothers wouldn't want their kid sister trailing after them all the time, but Riley never cared. He'd thump anybody who looked at me cross-eyed, too. He was my protector." Dean's chin was nestled on her collarbone and she rested her cheek against the top of his head. His hair was crunchy-wet with half-melted snow and ice.

"I remember this one time when we were running through the woods, playing tag or GI Joe or some stupid kid game like that. And I zagged when I should have zigged, went ass over elbows down a ravine. Broke my ankle. Riley carried me out, six miles on his back. And I was never scared, 'cause Riley was there. Then mom whooped his ass for letting me get hurt." Kathleen stopped, suddenly feeling her brother's presence so keenly that it was as if he was out there in the trees, just out of sight. "You and Sam kinda remind me of how Riley and I used to be, you know?"

Dean blanched as a jolt of agony stabbed across his belly, sending stars across his vision, and he bit down around a groan. A few seconds of silence, then, "C'n I ask you somethin'?" His voice was gravelly with pain, his breath warm on Kathleen's throat. She just nodded, softly running her hands over Dean's forehead to clear away the beads of melted snow. "When did you get so angry?"

Kathleen went still, her body tensing as though suddenly on high alert. "What do you mean?"

Dean closed his eyes, poked his tongue out in a vain attempt to wet his lips. "You're not the same. Y'r eyes are hard. The spark isn't there."

Kathleen scooped up a tiny bit of snow and let it soften in her hand, then tipped it against Dean's chin, letting the icy cold water drip into his mouth. "There's a lot of water under my bridge, Dean. Any person would get tougher."

"Don't you do it." He rolled his head, searching to meet her gaze, and she tipped her face so he could see her eyes. "Don't let this world change you. Didn't want this f'r you. You're too good for this kinda life." A froth of blood bubbled at his lips, popping wetly.

Kathleen smiled gently, her heart constricting as she smoothed the blood away with her thumb. "No Stay-Gold-Ponyboy speeches, bub. You stay with me." Dean blinked blearily at her, trying to match her smile, but the corners of his mouth just twitched and he hiccupped a strained breath. "All right, you got to ask a question, now it's my turn." Kathleen stroked her hand across Dean's cheek, brushing stray flakes of snow from his skin. "Are you scared?"

"'f what?" Dean's voice was reedy and he tried to spit out a clot of blood, but it just flopped out to rest on his chin. His body seemed to be getting heavier in Kathleen's arms, a dead weight pressing them close.

"You know." Kathleen wiped the grume from his face. "About going…" she stopped, floundering for words, then finished lamely, "You know."

Dean rolled his head so that his cheek rested against her uninjured shoulder, and groped until he found Kathleen's hand. He held it in his own, intertwining his fingers with hers. "Yeah."

She could barely hear his answer, but that one word was enough to slick her eyes with hot tears. _It's just not fair. Hasn't he been through enough? Can't he get a damn break? _His breath tickled her throat at irregular intervals, and she brought her free hand around his shoulders to rest against his chest, tucking her fingers inside his coat to find the reassurance of his heartbeat. "You're gonna be okay. You know why?" His eyes fluttered shut and he sighed. "Because you've got Sam. The two of you together, that's what makes you guys strong. You two will always have that."

She squeezed his hand, which had suddenly gone slack, and when she looked down at Dean, her breath stopped, because so had his. Panic swelled like a tidal surge and she nearly screamed, but she bit down around it and instead pushed Dean flat into the snow, ripping his jacket open and pressing her ear to his chest, her stomach clenching at the sensation of his blood against her cheek. Silence.

"Fuck, don't you fucking dare!" she snarled, and she pressed her mouth to his, blew in a breath of air. Nothing. She punched at the snow, terror and frustration overwhelming her self control. "This isn't the kind of kissing we're supposed to be doing, goddammit!" Again she placed his lips to his, begging him to breathe, then came up for air once more. "Com'on!" she begged, shaking Dean so hard that his head bounced off the snow. "Don't you do this to me, not now!"

A particularly large flake of frozen snow hit Kathleen smack in the eye and she flailed for a second, wailing, "My fuckin' cornea!" All her fear and rage and frustration and sorrow welled up the back of her throat and this time she did scream, a scream that echoed through the trees and back to her own ears like the ghost of her own terror. Hot tears now streamed unchecked down her face, dripping from her chin to land on Dean's throat. With all of her pain-and-emotion-fueled might, Kathleen punched Dean full-force in the sternum, and to her shock his entire body lurched as he sucked in a rasping, gasping breath.

She bent low over him, praying frantically to whoever might be listening, watching the gentle valley in the hollow of his throat for any sign of breath, and she brushed her thumb over the skin of his neck until she found the pulse point that throbbed reassuringly under her touch. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm. Filled with relief, she rested his forehead against the cool surface of Dean's throat. "Don't you dare do that again," she growled, tears still burning in her eyes.

For a few short moments she just breathed, matching breath for breath with him, as if she could heal him by the sheer force of her will. "Come on Sam, come on Jim…hurry, hurry, please hurry," she whispered into the wind. Then she rolled her body on top of his, covering him, protecting him from the falling snow, and she lay listening to the faint beating of his heart.


	14. Chapter 14

**I think I need a 12-step program to stop myself watching Celebrity Sober House. Someone please stage an intervention.**

* * *

The cold had numbed Sam so much that he had finally given up wiping at his nose, and he half-imagined twin snotsicles dangling like tusks from his face. Gamble was puffing like a steam engine as he half-carried Sam through the drifted snow. Once or twice they bumbled into barely-frozen waterholes, soaking themselves to the knees in frigid, stinging water.

But when Sam had finally begun to despair, imagining a slow death snuggling for warmth with a guy he hardly knew, he spotted a toppled tombstone jutting from the snow like a crooked tooth. Gamble must have seen it too because he broke into a halting gallop, hefting Sam along with him like a partner in a three legged race. But he skidded to a stop at the edge of the cemetery, mouth agape. "What the hell is that?" he breathed, letting go of Sam and bringing his rifle to low-ready.

Sam limped forward, tiptoeing on his bad leg, to where a patch of snow had been cleared down to the bare earth. A small, plain gravestone read Bender. At the front of the stone had been placed a glass jar, frosted opaque with ice, and a battered shoebox, upon which a garish bouquet of plastic flowers had been affixed with a square of silver duct tape. Sam's stomach tightened as he bent awkwardly to pick up the jar, his fingers sticking to the icy glass.

With a grunt of effort he unscrewed the lid, only to drop the jar with a yelp of alarm. The glass shattered on the ground and a shower of teeth and tiny bones skipped across Sam's boot as he danced awkwardly backward. He heard Gamble hiss in a breath behind him. "I don't like this bro," said the cop in a shaking voice.

"Join the club," Sam muttered tightly. With his toe he nudged the shoebox onto its side and kicked the lid away. He regretted it pretty quickly as a human hand, still strung with tendons and bits of frozen, rotted flesh, rolled out of the box at his feet. "Gimme salt, lighter fluid, and a lighter," he ordered, and Gamble complied without question, handing each to Sam like a surgical nurse.

"How're we gonna get at the old guy?" Gamble asked. "The ground is frozen, I'd guess, and it's gonna be a bitch to try and dig."

Sam frowned. "We'll cross that bridge in a second." He touched the lighter to the decaying hand, but as the flame leapt upward, all hell broke loose.

To Gamble's credit, he didn't scream as he was knocked backward, flailing wildly, by a whirlwind of angry black darkness. His head caromed off the edge of a broken tombstone and stars flashed across his vision as a curtain of blood gushed from his forehead to sting his eyes. Unconsciousness nudged at the corners of his brain and he sagged back into the snow, half-senseless.

Sam whirled, raising his pistol. He managed to squeeze off a shot but it went wild, ricocheting into the trees as the shadow hit him like a mack truck. As he landed against Bender's gravestone, he felt his shoulder pop out of joint and he would have shrieked if he could have caught a breath, but the crushing weight of the shadow was suffocating him.

As he watched, Pa Bender's leering face materialized, nearly nose to nose with him. Sam tried to squirm away, but it was as though he was in a dream, and he was unable to as much as twitch. Bender leaned closer, his bristly stubble tickling Sam's ears. _You killed my family, boy…but it ain't over, not by a shot, it ain't…_

As Sam watched, the face in front of him changed, morphing into the screaming visage of Lee, who seemed to be writhing in a glow of fire. _You damn fool, you took away my brother, took Gabe, took Missy, took my life…I'm gonna tear you apart…gonna take your life away slow and painful… _The glow around Lee grew so bright that Sam squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the intensity.

But Lee's screams suddenly ceased and Sam cracked an eye open, only to find Riley's face hovering above him, full of sadness and pain, and anger. _All the people you could have saved, if you had only come sooner…_

A cacophony of voices seemed to grow and the spirit in front of Sam started to strobe, face after face after anger-filled face, accusing and questioning and raging, until Sam felt that he would be overwhelmed and destroyed by the sheer intensity of all the emotions. _Why did you stop looking for me? Why didn't you come? Did you forget about me? Can you imagine how scared I was? Did you even care that I was gone? _

An explosive concussion set Sam's ears to ringing and the darkness flashed away, scattering like mist in a gust of wind. His vision cleared enough that he could see Gamble, face painted kabuki-gory with blood, taking the pin from one of Kathleen's grenades and rolling it onto the frozen ground of Bender's grave. Sam rolled into the fetal position, arms crossed over his face, but he yelped as a blast of rock-salt peppered his back, burning like bee stings.

"Sam, cover me!" hollered Gamble, and Sam scrambled to his feet, pistol in hand. Gamble began blasting away at the ground with his rifle, tearing through the frozen crust of the earth, sending clods of dirt and stones flying. He chucked in another salt grenade and after the flash of the explosion Sam could see the rotting wooden boards of a pauper's coffin.

But as Gamble dropped to his hands and knees to clear away more dirt, he was bowled over backward by the darkness, managing a strangled yell before he was completely engulfed. Sam scrambled through the snow for the lighter fluid and quickly sprayed the exposed wood of the coffin. He flicked his lighter but it just sparked uselessly, refusing the yield the flame he was so desperate for. After a few more seconds of fumbling, he turned and grabbed the still-flaming dismembered hand, ignoring the sizzle of his own skin, and heaved it into the open grave.

The lighter fluid went up with a _whoomph_ that singed Sam's eyebrows and he rolled back away from the flames. A blast of hot wind, stinking of rotted, burning flesh and fetid breath tore at Sam's clothes and he covered his face with his hands, riding out the storm of furious energy. He listened with grim satisfaction as the screams of rage ebbed to the barest whisper, then fell silent altogether.

After a few seconds of just breathing, Sam sat up and grasped at his injured shoulder. With a rolling jerk and a muffled roar of pain, he popped the joint back into the socket, then crawled to where Gamble was sprawled on the ground. "You okay, man?"

Gamble opened his eyes, staring blearily at Sam. A blood vessel had broken in one of his eyes and his iris was ringed red with a clot of blood. "You people are out of your minds," he wheezed, and Sam couldn't contain a laugh of relief and pent-up tension. He slipped his uninjured arm under Gamble's shoulders and helped him sit up.

"We've gotta get back to the others," Sam puffed, helping Gamble stand. "You okay to walk?" Gamble staggered sideways a bit, blood still dripping from his forehead and off his chin, tinging his blond hair pink.

"'m good to walk, but I don't know if I can carry you, too." A thought struck Gamble suddenly and he keyed his radio. "65, Central?"

After a few tense seconds the radio crackled in reply, "65, go ahead." Gamble looked as though he might weep in relief, a sentiment with which Sam could completely identify.

"I need medic on a rush to Little Swan Cemetery. Got three injured, one serious."

Another voice boomed over the radio, cutting off the dispatcher. "Gamble from Hopkins, where the hell are you?! Frank is fucking dead in the snow and you fucking vanished!"

Gamble cut his eyes sideways to Sam. "Little Swan, sir. It's a long story."

"I'm on my way," replied Hopkins tersely. Sam bit the inside of his mouth, new tension gnawing at his guts as he wracked his brain for a cover story.

Gamble turned and handed Sam his rifle. "I'm going to go get Kathleen and your brother. If I'm not back when medic gets here, they can follow my tracks to the clearing."

Sam nodded and sank back to a seat, a little tempted to move closer to the blazing open grave for warmth, though the smell was nearly overwhelming. "Stay sharp, man," he warned. "Just in case."

"You too, bro," replied Gamble. "And keep an eye out for bears. They're mean little bastards." Sam didn't miss the twinkle in Gamble's eye and he gave a weary grin. Gamble smiled back and held up a hand, then crossed his fingers, turned, and disappeared into the woods.


	15. Chapter 15

**Between Sober House and Firefly, my attention span has been for shit lately. Sorry for the delay. :(**

* * *

Despite her best efforts to stay awake, Kathleen was dozing fitfully. The numbing cold seemed to have an icy grip around the base of her brain, leaving her sluggishly stuporous. Dean was cradled in her lap, the top of his head nestled under her chin, his breathing erratic and shallow. Occasionally he'd open his eyes, whispering raggedly for water, and Kathleen would melt snow in her already-blue-cold hands, and drip it between his parched lips.

The only warmth she felt was that of Dean's body tangled up with hers, and she pulled him tighter, as if she was trying to wrap him up completely in herself. He shifted, digging his chin into her clavicle. She gave a little squeal of pain and he opened his eyes, and found himself staring at her, nose to nose.

"Hi," she whispered, trying to stop her teeth chattering.

"Hi," Dean whispered back, wrapping one arm around Kathleen's back. "You okay?"

Kathleen shuddered in his arms, chills wracking through her. Her shoulder was throbbing in time with her heartbeat, hot stinging pains that made her want to vomit. "Glad you're here," she murmured, resting her forehead against Dean's. "Didn't wanna die alone." She smiled but it was false, not masking the sadness behind her eyes.

"Stop that," Dean slurred. "We're not gonna die." He snuggled closer to her and she sighed, shivering. "You an' me, we're gonna be fine…" His voice was fading to a weary rasp, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of Kathleen's hair.

Kathleen was drifting back into haziness when she was suddenly startled by the crackling crunch of approaching footsteps in the snow. As a shadowy figure came into view she grabbed for her pistol but fumbled it, sending it skittering just out of reach. With a panicked yelp, she picked up her salt-sock and heaved it, pegging the figure in the shoulder. She then rolled to the side, sending Dean sprawling, and she grabbed her gun, firing a wild shot toward the intruder.

"Jesus Christ!" a frantic voice hollered, and the man dropped to the ground, ducking and covering. "Cease fire! Cease fire!"

The familiarity of James Gamble's voice clicked in Kathleen's frozen brain and she dropped the pistol again, horrified. "Oh God, did I hit you?" she nearly wailed.

Gamble peeked at her from between his fingers. "You nearly blew a new parting in my hair," he gasped, laying a hand on his hammering heart. Melting snow caked his hair and a droplet of icy water dripped from the tip of his nose.

"Is it done?" Kathleen couldn't stop the quiver in her voice and she swallowed hard, clearing her throat.

"I sure the hell hope so," replied Gamble, crawling forward to Dean's side. He dipped his head to stare intently at Dean's face. "He doesn't look so good." He pulled Dean's jacket and shirt open to inspect the wounds, and as he softly brushed his fingers over the deep, oozing gashes, Dean opened his eyes.

"Hey, Jimbo," he murmured muzzily. Gamble just smiled with a small shake of his head.

"How you doing, bro? You hanging in?" Dean nodded wearily, lifting his hand enough to give a thumb up.

Kathleen heaved herself to her feet, tipping sideways slightly and steadying herself against a tree. "You sure it's over?"

Gamble zipped Dean's jacket up again, and squeezed Dean's shoulder gently. "I think so. Somebody had built some kind of shrine at old man Bender's grave…we burned it. Got our asses handed to us doing it, but we pulled it off."

Kathleen put a shaking hand to her forehead, feeling weak with relief. The ground beneath her seemed to shift and undulate and she swayed, closing her eyes. Gamble glanced at her, then did a little double take and tensed. "You okay?"

Kathleen opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly her eyes rolled back and she dropped into the snow like a sack of stones, arms and legs flopping out in every direction, eyes rolled back so far that there was no hint of color, just slivers of pure white sclera. Gamble sprinted to her side, skidding to a halt and falling to his hands and knees beside her. "Kathleen!" Her name escaped him in a strangled bark of panic. He grabbed at her arm and was stunned and frightened at the rigid tightness of her muscles, stretched taught like rubber bands at the brink of snapping. Her hands were contorted into ugly claws, grasping at nothing and everything all at once, arms reaching into empty air, searching and clutching and seeking. Her eyelashes fluttered rapidly over the whites of her unseeing eyes as quickly as the strobing beats of a hummingbird's wings.

Gamble leaned over her, frantic and completely helpless. He could hear her teeth grinding, hear the labored grunts of her too-far-between breaths, as her lungs fought to overpower the iron grip of her contracting chest muscles. He levered an arm underneath her and rolled her onto her side, bracing his knee in the small of her back to keep her in place, and he bent low, so close that his panicked breaths ruffled the hair that fell across her forehead in ropy, untidy strands. Every muscle in her body was taut, tense, straining, threatening to tear themselves from the bones through the sheer force of their contraction.

Her breaths were labored, drawn through clenched teeth into compressed lungs, a hissing, rasping inhale and a forced, laborious exhale. Between every breath Gamble held his own, praying for her to take another…and another…A milky, bubbling froth had collected at the corner of her mouth, tracking down her cheek to drip into the snow and her lips had taken on a cold, grayish-blue tinge. Gamble could now see a bit of color in her eyes as her corneas tracked back and forth, left and right, from one extreme corner to the other, as though Kathleen were frantically searching for something. Snowflakes perched delicately on her eyelashes.

Gamble bent low over Kathleen, nearly touching his forehead to hers, and brushed her pulsepoint with his fingertips. Her heartbeat was rapid, uneven, racing. He stared at her, anger unexpectedly rushing through his veins like adrenaline. "Wake the fuck up! Don't fuckin' do this!" But all he could do was rub little circles on her back, waiting and hoping.

After what seemed a hellish eternity, he felt her muscles start to loosen and relax, so he pulled her into his arms, sitting her up and leaning her against his chest. She started to struggle against him, pushing weakly away, mumbling under her breath. He clutched her closer, restraining her arms and wrapping one leg over her lap to stop her standing up. "It's okay," he whispered at her, pressing his chin into her shoulderblade. "You're okay." She thrashed in his grip, flailing out wildly, using the little of her remaining strength to try to flee. Her eyes were wild and confused, like those of a trapped animal. "You're okay, Kathleen, come on. Come back."

She tried to shrug him off, but her movements were weak, listless. He just tightened his arms around her, wrapping her up into his own body until her struggles slowed and she sagged back into his arms, eyes closed, just breathing. "You with me, Katie?" he murmured in her ear. When she didn't respond he jostled her a bit. "Huh?"

"Yeah." Her voice wasn't much more than a rough whisper. A solitary tear, born more of fatigue than sorrow, dropped from her lashes and rolled down the curve of her jaw. "'M'alright."

A rush of relief battered Gamble and he just pulled her closer, clutching her against him, riding out the waves of fear and anger and uncertainty that he had been suppressing since the whole mess started. "Jesus, you scared the shit out of me." he murmured against her hair. After a few deep breaths, he tried to pull her to her feet. "Come on, we have to get out of here." But she was like dead weight in his hands. "Hey, come on."

"Uhuh." Kathleen shrugged away from him, trying to curl up in a ball in the snow. "M'tired. Gonna rest a second."

"No, we have to go." Gamble tried to pull her up again but she swung at him, face creased with weary annoyance. He dodged, grabbed both her wrists. "Knock it off, Kathleen," he warned.

"Fuckoff," she slurred, trying to roll away from his hands. "Lea'me alone."

He squeezed Kathleen's wrists so hard that she winced and tried to pull away from his grip. "I can't carry Dean and you too. Now get up. We're going. _Now._"

"F'ckin cold." Kathleen made a half-hearted effort to stagger to her feet, and Gamble wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into him. "Fuck this. 'm movin' somewhere warm. Texas. No, Florida."

"I hear Sarasota is nice this time of year." Gamble tucked her closer to him, supporting much of her weight against his hip. "Come on, we're getting out of here, we'll find you some coffee."

"Soup," Kathleen said sluggishly. "Want tomato soup…an'a grilled cheese."

Gamble smiled. "You've got it. Whatever you want." He carefully let go of Kathleen and she swayed a bit, but managed to stay upright.

They both started and turned as they heard the sound of approaching footsteps, breaking branches and crackling snow. Gamble unholstered his pistol, but nearly dropped it with a whimper of relief as he caught sight of two paramedics huffing and puffing their way toward the clearing.

Kathleen could hear sirens in the distance, off in the direction of the cemetery, and she was horrified to find herself suddenly crying, tears pouring unchecked down her cheeks.

"We're safe…" Gamble spoke so quietly that Kathleen could barely hear him, and she ran her forearm under her eyes.

"Whoopdi fuckin' do, Jimmy." She knelt by Dean and gathered him up, pressing against him as if she could staunch the flow of his blood with her own body. Gamble darted forward to meet the medics, and Kathleen pressed a kiss against Dean's cool forehead. "Hang on, Deano…we're going home. Don't give up now."


	16. Chapter 16

**Our secretary gave me the plague. I think I coughed up my gall bladder.**

* * *

Sam couldn't believe it. Shocked and fatigued and just-plain-pissed-off, he stared at the dingy cement-block wall of the interrogation room with complete bewilderment, weary mind churning with questions.

He'd been huddled, near-frozen, in the cemetery when a squad car roared up, fishtailing in the snow. Hopkins leapt from the car, gun drawn, and started screaming nearly incomprehensible commands. Before he could protest, Sam found himself proned out in a slushy puddle with Hopkins kneeling on the small of his back and yanking his hands back to cuff up. His shoulder flamed with new pain, the joint clicking and grinding in the socket.

The silent ride back to the precinct house had been broken only by Hopkins' monotone recitation of Sam's Miranda Rights. Sam had sensibly clammed up, so Hopkins, huffing like an annoyed walrus, dumped him unceremoniously in the bare-walled interrogation room and left him there for what seemed to Sam a rather unprofessional amount of time. The only upside was that the room was stiflingly hot, and feeling was starting to creep back into Sam's fingers and toes with a throbbing ache.

A rattle of the door's lock announced Hopkins' return, and Sam schooled his face into an expression of nonchalance. "You gonna tell me what happened?" Hopkins yanked a chair away from the table and flopped to a seat, straddling the chair back. He hooked a finger into the knot of his tie and loosened it.

Sam fought the urge to smirk. Hopkins was hitting every hard-boiled-detective cliché in the book. "I don't know what you mean," he muttered sullenly. "I need a doctor, my knee is jacked up. And my shoulder is dislocated."

"You don't know what I mean." A sneer curled the detective's face. "How about the fact that we found you at the site of a desecrated grave, covered with blood, with several illegal firearms, and that according to the name you've given us, you don't actually exist."

Sam pursed his mouth, feigning disinterest. "I want to talk to Detective Hudak." He shifted in his chair, trying to rotate his shoulder.

Hopkins clicked his tongue with an annoyed eyeroll. "She's still at the hospital."

"Don't care." Sam shrugged, then immediately regretted it as a bolt of pain shot through his neck and shoulder. "I'll only talk to her."

Hopkins gave a growl of frustration. "This ain't Let's Make a Deal, kid. Stop playin' games, 'cause I guarantee you that if you lie to me, you'll be screwed, blewed, and tattooed before you walk out of this county. If you ever do."

"I either want Hudak or a lawyer. Your pick." Sam leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles and studying the pattern of grime on the tiled floor. _Cool, calm, and muthafucking collected._

Hopkins' eyes narrowed. "You'll talk to Hudak? Without a lawyer?"

Sam pushed out his lips in a contemplative pout, forgoing another shrug. "Maybe."

Hopkins' chair creaked as he leaned forward to stare into Sam's eyes. After a moment he spoke again, voice low and dangerous. "Don't pump sunshine up my ass, kid. You're in a mess of trouble, and I suggest you think long and hard while I look for Detective Hudak."

"Thanks for the advice," snarked Sam, and he turned his back on Hopkins. The detective waited a beat, then huffed with exasperation and clumped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The click of the lock as the door shut made Sam sick to his stomach.

"Shit." He shut his eyes against the fluorescent light and shook his head, hating the feeling of helplessness that had come over him. He didn't even know if Dean and Kathleen were alive or dead…_Please, God, let Dean be okay._

The lock clicked again and Sam glanced up suspiciously. Gamble strode into the room and pulled the door shut behind him. In his hand he held an opened can of Coke, and he set it down in front of Sam. Sam opened his mouth to speak but Gamble stopped him with a slight tightening of his lips. His eyes flicked upward once, twice. Sam waited a beat, then looked up. A small video camera was pointed down at the table, red light blinking like a heartbeat. Gamble then grasped Sam by the elbow and pulled him upright. "Gonna move your cuffs to the front, okay?" he said quietly.

Sam complied meekly, noting with gratitude that Gamble didn't ratchet the cuffs as tightly as Hopkins had. He could see a red ring of chaffed skin on each wrist as a testament to the detective's zeal, and he chalked it up as one more that he owed Hopkins. Gamble gestured at the soda and said, "Wet your whistle. Detective Hopkins is on the phone with the hospital. It will probably be a while before anybody checks back in on you." He gave Sam a grim half-smile and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Sam sipped at his soda, mind racing. _What charges are they looking at? Do they know I was at the barn with the dead old folks? Has Gamble spilled his guts? And goddammit, is Dean okay?_

As he set the coke can on the table, a strange, muted rattle caught his ear. Brow furrowing, he picked the can back up and gave it a little shake. Another rattle. He swigged out the last of the soda, and tossed the can across the room into the trash bin with a little smile on his face. In his mouth, his tongue traced over the familiar contours of a paper clip.

After another glance upward, Sam angled his body so that his shoulders obscured the camera's view. He spat the paperclip into his palm and straightened it, then awkwardly twisted his hand and fit the end of the clip into the keyhole of his left cuff. A few practiced tweaks of his fingers and the ratchets of the cuffs loosened enough that he could slip his hand out.

As he went to work on the other cuff, he was startled by the clicking of the door lock, and a billow of wild panic surged in his throat. He slipped his left hand back into the cuff and tightened it just enough that it latched, but loosely enough that he could easily pull his wrist out.

The door creaked open an inch but no one entered, so after a few seconds of holding his breath, Sam sidled over and peeked through the gap. He saw Gamble's solid figure in the hall, leaning against a wall, hands jammed into his pockets. After a few casual glances up and down the hall, Gamble shrugged his shoulders and jerked his chin at Sam.

A strange, fleeting sense of sadness passed over Sam as he looked at Gamble, but he didn't hesitate further. With a last glance around, he walked quickly down the hall, trying his damndest to be invisible, until he reached the front doors of the station and stepped out into the swirling white of falling snow, and he disappeared into the storm.


	17. Chapter 17

**Probably only one more chapter to go here...have been a bit discouraged, am burned out. I'll be going back thru seasons 4 and 5 to try and get the mojo back. Thanks to all.**

* * *

Dean drifted back to consciousness slowly, his dreams melding with reality in a confusing swirl. As he climbed out of the dreams he became aware of a rawness in his throat, like a thousand stinging ants were marching up and down his trachea. _Trach tube trauma_, he thought in bleary alliteration. He opened his eyes, only to have them slap back shut against the megawatt glow of fluorescent overheads. He knew, _just knew_ that hell was lit by buzzing white tubes. _Is that where I am?_

He fought back a gagging cough but lost, hacking so hard that his body folded in on itself and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, dripping down to tickle his ears, and he suddenly feared he'd piss himself if the wracking convulsions didn't soon stop. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a cool hand brushed across his forehead, and he cringed away from the touch.

"Hey now, none of that." The voice was familiar, and he cracked his lashes open to find Kathleen standing next to his bed, bundled in an ankle length down coat.

"Turn the lights down," Dean croaked. Kathleen complied, flipping the switches so that the room was only dimly lit by the cold sun filtering through the blinds, and Dean squinted his eyes back open.

"Better?" Kathleen folded to a seat in the vinyl chair next to the bed as Dean took slow, tentative breaths, testing his lungs.

Dean nodded, trying to ignore his prickling throat. Kathleen reached over and poured a bit of water into a glass, then held it to Dean's dry, cracking lips. He sipped, the cool water soothing his parched tongue and burning throat. Kathleen pulled the cup away and he wanted to grab it back, to wail _more more more_, to guzzle Lake Superior dry and leave all the fish twitching and flopping against the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. _Hmm. Too much Darvocet, _he thought wearily, searching his lips with the tip of his tongue for any missed drops of moisture.

"Take it easy, kid. Too much and you'll just hork it back up. Slowly, now." Kathleen tipped another bit of water into his mouth and Dean swallowed it obediently. "They had to give you five units of blood…" Kathleen brushed the hair away from Dean's forehead, and he noted with a sense of disconnect that her hand was shaking. "The doctor said that if it weren't for the cold you would've bled out."

Dean slowly slicked his tongue over his parched lips. "Never thought I'd be thankful for fucking subzero weather." He paused, smirked wearily. "Provided that the boys decided to come back down, anyway." Kathleen grinned and rolled her eyes. Dean suddenly frowned, concern creasing his brow. "Where's Sammy? Is he okay?"

Kathleen's mouth twisted into a little grimace. "He's okay. Physically, anyway. He's down at the precinct house."

Dean's stomach jumped and he tried to sit up. "Katie, he's got warrants…we have to get him out of there."

Kathleen pushed him back down against the mattress with a firm hand. "I have Jimmy working on it as we speak. I got a message from Hopkins on my cell that Sam refuses to talk to anybody but me, so we've got some time." She ran the back of her hand across her own forehead, swiping aside a hank of hair, which was ropy with sweat and melted snow.

"Aren't you hot in that thing?" Dean rasped, gesturing at Kathleen's coat. She glanced at the floor, a sudden blush coloring her skin. Dean furrowed his brow. "Are you okay?"

With a glance over her shoulder at the closed door, Kathleen slowly unzipped her coat to reveal a barely-there skirt and a skimpy halter top that didn't hide her bandaged shoulder.

But best of all, she was wearing the thigh-high boots that had flitted through Dean's dreams since he spied them in her closet what seemed a lifetime ago.

Dean's eyebrows twitched upward. "How delightfully skanky," he muttered. Kathleen twisted the lock on the door and turned back to Dean, giving him a small, oddly-shy smile. He smiled back, but with sadness in his eyes, and murmured, "I'm really sorry." Kathleen furrowed her brow, suddenly afraid she'd misread him, had embarrassed herself. "I'm sorry that you got caught up in all this. The violence, the horror, the way everything just always seems to go balls up…I'm just…sorry."

Kathleen looked at him for a long moment, her eyes shining with a sheen of tears as she fought back the emotions she had been swallowing. "You know something?" she asked quietly.

"What's that?" Dean extended his hand and she took it, examining his busted knuckles, his torn fingernails, his calloused palm. He reached up with his other hand and softly touched the bandage on Kathleen's shoulder, fingertips brushing across it as if he could heal her with a touch.

"I'm glad I know you." Kathleen nudged Dean over and slid onto the bed next to him, turning so that they faced one another nearly nose to nose. "Despite everything, all the craziness…I'm still glad." She leaned over and brushed a soft kiss across his lips. "I wouldn't trade it, not for anything."

Dean shifted closer to her, careful not to strain his stitched up abdomen. "Promise me one thing, okay?" She nodded, gently stroking her fingers across the nape of his neck. "Don't follow my path. Don't become a hunter." Kathleen gave him a quizzical look. "You're better than that. You deserve a better life."

"Plus there's no pension in it." Kathleen clucked a half-hearted laugh, then gave a little shiver as Dean's lips brushed her earlobe. "I can't forget the things I've seen, Dean. And I'm going to learn as much as I can. But I can promise you that I'll never actively seek those things out. It's not who I am. And, frankly, I wouldn't want to do it without you anyway."

"Good. I point and laugh at paranormalists, I'd hate to see you turn into one of those schmuckfuckers." Dean closed his eyes as Kathleen's breath tickled the nape of his neck. "I wish things were different." He nuzzled at her cheek, savoring the warmth of her skin. "We could have been good, you know. A house, lots of kids…"

Kathleen laughed, a real laugh this time, and chucked her fist gently against Dean's chin. "I have no intention of turning my uterus into a clown car, thanks anyway." Dean laughed too, then caught her mouth in a kiss, and for a long moment they lost themselves in each other, as if affirming that they were alive, they had survived, they had won the day just one more time.

Kathleen broke away, her breath coming in a little sigh. "So now you've gotta promise me something." Kathleen softly touched Dean's chin with her thumb. "Find a way. Find a way to live. Don't go…" She stopped, unwilling to say the words. "You're worth saving."

Dean's heart tightened in his chest and he buried his face against Kathleen's throat to hide the emotions he knew were creasing his features. "You know what they say," he forced out, trying for levity. "You might be a king or a little street sweeper, but sooner or later you dance with the Reaper." Kathleen pushed away from him and stared him in the eye.

"Fight it." Her face was somber, jaw set with determination and a bit of anger. "Don't give in to it. You fight it just like you fight every other motherfucker you come across. Or I swear to God I'll find you and kick your ass." Her rough tone was belied by the tears that again slicked her eyes.

Dean pulled Kathleen into a crushing embrace and whispered against her ear, "I promise."


	18. Chapter 18

**Sorry for the long wait. Long story short, the anniversary of my friend Dominic's death is coming up, and it's making me morose. Please don't let the delay stop you from reviewing.**

* * *

It never ceased to amaze Sam that in the modern age people would leave their cars unlocked. He found a snow-covered coupe in the parking lot across the street from the police station, and he slipped in through the back passenger's door, leaving the rest of the car covered in snow in order to hide his actions.

Lacking a screwdriver, Sam lay across the front seat and began kicking at the steering column with his uninjured leg. After a few firm boots the column cracked and he sat up, fishing inside the broken plastic, and he touched together two wires. The engine rumbled and relief surged in his chest. _I'm comin', Dean. _His shoulder and knee were both throbbing, pulsing pain in rhythm with his heartbeat, but he ignored them, breathing through the agony.

The wipers moved drunk-slow and jerky as they struggled to clear the heavy snow from the windshield. Sam slammed the gearshift to drive and stomped the accelerator. The rear wheels spun in the snow, seeking traction, then caught, lurching the car forward, and he had to remind himself to calm down. _Drive casual, stupid._

The drive to the hospital was slowed by the ice-slick roads, and Sam prayed to whatever snow-god was out there that the car he had stolen could handle the conditions. It must have worked, or his luck was changing, because after what seemed like an hour, he finally pulled into the roundabout in front of the hospital. Sam glanced in the rearview, regarding the crust of blood caking his hair into crunchy tangles that dangled into his eyes. He scratched at his scalp, snowing red flakes onto his shirt, then climbed, hissing a breath of pain, out of the car.

The security guard at the door of the hospital gave him a hard-eyed stare, looking his battered, bloodied body up and down, but Sam stalked by him with an upraised chin, defying the rentacop to challenge him. As expected, the guard didn't stop him, and Sam stepped up to the information desk to inquire after his brother.

A nurse directed him to the elevator, and he stood, knees shaking with sudden fatigue, waiting. _Take for fucking ever, why don't you,_ he cursed the slow elevator. Finally the doors dinged open and he stepped inside, thankful that no one hopped aboard with him. The bright lights made him squint and his stomach swooped as he rose, floor after floor, closer and closer to the end of this fucking nightmare trip. _Hibbing is a hellmouth, I just know it._

He followed the pointing finger of a nurse at the receiving desk down an empty hallway, a jog here and a quick turn there, and he finally found Dean's room, 1711. The door was shut, curtains drawn. Sam rapped a knuckle against the door, then tried to turn the handle. _Locked. _A nervous rush tightened his stomach. _Now what?_ He abandoned his polite knuckle-tapping for a bolder fist-pounding, then considered moving on to a heavy application of his foot to the door jamb, but after a few seconds he heard the lock click, and the door swung open.

Kathleen was standing there, wrapped in a heavy coat, her hair mussed and her cheeks red. Sam glanced at Dean, observed his own flushed face and rumpled hair. "Oh, for Christ sake," growled Sam, and Dean grinned while Kathleen sheepishly scraped her hand through her hair.

Sam closed the door behind him and huffily dropped into the chair beside the bed. Kathleen glanced at his chafed wrists. "Jimmy followed through, then?"

Sam nodded, puffed out a sigh. "We'll just say that somebody carelessly left a paperclip lying around. And a door open."

Kathleen's phone chimed and she glanced at the caller ID, frowning. "Hopkins." She thumbed it to voicemail but it began to ring again immediately. She cut her eyes sideways to Sam. "Guess he knows you're gone." She touched her finger to her lips, then answered the phone with a terse, "Hudak."

Sam could hear the harsh buzz of someone yelling shrilly on the other end of the line. Kathleen winced and pulled the phone away from her ear. "Tone it down, Hop, I'm not fucking deaf," she snapped. "What do you mean gone?" A slow, satisfied smile creased her face. "Well how the hell did he get a paperclip? Didn't you search him?" Another round of apoplexy from Hopkins forced her to press her palm over her mouth to muffle her laughter. "I'm still here at the hospital. I'll keep an eye out here and put security on it. I'll call it in if he turns up." She clicked the phone shut and jammed it into the pocket of her coat.

But after a few seconds her face went blank like a slate wiped clean, and she looked over at Dean. She caught the corner of her lip in her teeth and worried at it. "So I guess this is it, then." She glanced at Sam. "You're gonna have to get out of here before Hop drags his fat ass over here." She rubbed her palm across her mouth, scrubbing away the sudden urge to cry.

"I boosted a car from the grocery store across the street from the precinct house," Sam offered. "We'll swing out and grab the Impala, and get the hell out of Dodge." He stooped down and unplugged the monitors at Dean's bedside so the alarms wouldn't go off. Dean plucked the IV needle from the crook of his elbow, ignoring the bead of blood that welled ruby red on his skin. Sam brushed it away with his thumb.

"You shouldn't use the same car," protested Kathleen. "If it's been reported stolen there'll be a BOL for it, they'll just snap you right back up."

Sam huffed his frustration. _It's always fuckin' something._ "Any bright ideas then?"

A sly smile slid across Kathleen's face. "Don't go anywhere." She slipped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her, and Sam heard her give a little chuckle as she went.

Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking like a lost little boy in his hospital gown. Sam looked him over, eyes scanning the new bruises and cuts on his brother's skin. "I need a vacation, man," he finally sighed, sinking to a seat at Dean's side. He rotated his arching shoulder, listening to it click in the socket.

Dean nodded wearily. "You okay?" Sam just shrugged. "At least tell me you killed it. Whatever it was."

Sam shook his head. "It was a damn shrine. Somebody made a shrine to the Benders. There was a jar of teeth…a fucking _hand _in a decorated shoebox, for Christ sake. Who would do that?"

"Plenty of sickos in the world," Dean muttered. "Some true-crime serial-killer-groupie got all hot in the pants for ol' Pa Bender, maybe." He pulled an ugly face. "Anyway, put all that bad mojo together in one spot, work a couple simple spells and you've got a shadow spirit. It makes sense." He reached back to scratch his ass, wincing as the stitches in his abdomen pulled. "But you finished it, right?" There was a little note of worry in his tone. "'Cause if you think I'm going back out there you've lost your damn mind."

"I torched the whole thing, yeah." Sam couldn't stop a little grin. "You should've seen Gamble. He used a fucking grenade and his AR to blow the grave open."

"Kid's got potential." Dean pulled the blanket off the bed and draped it over his back, shivering as a draft wafted across his bare skin. _Whoever invented these damn gowns should be shot._

Sam chuckled, "Somehow I don't think he's interested." He felt a little rush of regret. "I hope he doesn't get burned for helping us."

They both fell silent as the door opened and Kathleen slipped back inside, handing Sam a bundle of clothes. He unfolded them and quirked an eyebrow. "Paramedic uniform?"

Kathleen grinned and hauled a gurney into the room. "Ready to go for a ride, Deano?"


	19. Chapter 19

**It's been a long, weird road, and we've reached the end of it. Obviously the biggest thanks go to Zatnikatel for letting me play in her world for a while. A special note to Natasha K, who spent a rainy day in Seoul reading and reviewing like EVERY story I've written. Thank you SO much for that, it made my day.**

* * *

"Couldn't you have at least snagged me some pants?" Dean groused. "I'm flappin' in the breeze here." He yanked at his gown, pressing his knees together in mock-modesty.

Kathleen scowled and pushed the oxygen mask back over his nose, giving him a slitty-eyed glare. "You're dying, shut up," she hissed, tugging a sheet up to his chest. He gave her an exaggerated eye-roll but complied, sinking back against the pillows as Kathleen and Sam trundled him out of the room on a squeaky-wheeled gurney.

Sam, uncomfortable in the slightly-too-small paramedic's uniform (_they don't come in Sasquatch size, Kathleen had snarked),_ pulled his baseball cap lower to shield his eyes as they passed the nurses' station, Kathleen feigning the hand-wringing anxiety of a concerned friend or lover. The nurse at the desk didn't even look up from her romance novel as they bundled Dean onto the elevator, and Kathleen thumbed SB-1.

The doors shooshed open in the subbasement, revealing a dingy underground parking structure, lit by flickering, flyspecked bare bulbs. A row of battered ambulances with dinged up fenders and broken headlights lined the back wall. Sam turned to Kathleen, eyebrow twitching upward. "Really?"

"You got a better idea?" Kathleen asked pointedly, one hand on her hip. "It's the best way to leave the hospital unnoticed."

Dean pushed aside his oxygen mask and growled, "What about my car?"

"Already taken care of." Kathleen pressed her index finger to the side of her nose and smirked. "Would you two just trust me?" she asked, jerking open the rear doors of the ambulance. Dean rolled off the gurney and clambered aboard, making no effort at decency as his gown flapped open. Kathleen couldn't stifle a little snort of laughter as Sam made a gagging noise and slammed the doors shut behind his brother with a bit more force than was necessary.

Sam and Kathleen climbed into the front seat and Sam pried open the steering column with a set of Gerber pliers that Kathleen dug out of the dashbox. "Never hotwired an ambulance before," he commented as the engine turned over with a diesel rumble.

"Ya learn something new every day," Dean sniped, poking his head through the hatch into the front seat. He had wrapped himself in a blanket and looked to Kathleen like a little boy who had just woken from a restless sleep. "Don't forget about my car."

Kathleen shot him a look. "Don't make me come back there," she warned, but she was met only with a devilish grin and a quirked come-hither eyebrow, and with a bitchy huff from Sam.

If Sam had thought that navigating the icy roads in the stolen coupe was hair-raising, driving the heavy, boxy ambulance was positively ass-puckering. Kathleen leaned forward into the windscreen, peering into the flying snow and calling out directions into a bewildering maze of tree-lined, snow-slicked roads.

Finally Sam spotted the twin glow of headlights beaming through the gale, and as he neared them he recognized the dark bulk of the Impala. A breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding escaped him in a bark of laughter. He stepped on the brakes, and his stomach clutched a bit as the ambulance fishtailed slightly on the ice. "Yeah, let's crash into the Impala, just to cap off a great couple of days," he muttered, drawing a hard glare from Dean.

Kathleen jumped out of the ambulance as Gamble clambered out of the Impala. "Are you okay?" she asked, pulling her coat tighter against her chest.

Gamble shrugged and nodded. "Other than having the weirdest day of my entire life, yeah." Kathleen glanced at the gash on his forehead but he brushed away her concern. "Just a flesh wound," he grinned. "You should see my vest. That thing cracked my fuckin' SAPI plate."

"Heard anything from Hop?" Kathleen shivered and Gamble handed her a pair of gloves out of his coat pocket.

"He's only been blowing my phone up for about an hour." Gamble's mouth twisted in a curl of disgust.

"You think he's onto you?" Now that life and limb were safe, Kathleen's mind was now churning over how to explain away all the madness that had happened, once again, in Hibbing.

Gamble shrugged again. "Not a clue. He's doing a lot of screaming but hasn't made any accusations. Not yet at least. Think we're okay, at least for now."

Dean nearly tumbled out of the back of the ambulance but Sam managed to catch him by the elbow. Gamble looked him up and down. "Nice outfit, dude." He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Dean. "And nice car, by the way. You ever think of selling it?" The sour look Dean gave him was answer enough and Gamble couldn't stop a laugh.

Kathleen turned to Sam. "You guys had better go. The sooner you get out of Saint Louis County the better."

"No offense, but the sooner we get out of _Minnesota_ the better," Sam replied. After a second of hesitation he pulled Kathleen into a hug, being careful not to bump her burned shoulder.

She hugged him back and planted a kiss on his cheek. "You take care, huh?" she murmured.

"You too." Sam pulled back and grinned down at her. "You do know we're never coming back to this town, right? Like ever."

"Can't say that I blame you. I think it has worn out its welcome for me, too." Kathleen shivered again. "I gotta move somewhere warm."

As Kathleen glanced at Dean, Sam gave Gamble a look and muttered, "Yeah, I'm gonna just go. Over here." Gamble looked from Sam to Dean to Kathleen, and they could almost see the light bulb go on over his head. Only Sam noticed the little flare of disappointment in his eyes, but Gamble blinked it away and followed him to the back of the ambulance where the stood stamping in the cold and sucking diesel fumes.

Dean's smile was sad as Kathleen stepped up to him and softly gripped his shoulder. "Dammit, Dean," she said quietly. "You gotta stop doing this to me, you know? You come here, raise hell, then take off again. You're gonna be the death of me."

"Never," Dean answered. "You're too fuckin' amazing to die, trust me. I know this stuff."

"Just remember you promised me, right?" Kathleen pulled him into a hug, clutching him against her as if she could protect him by the sheer force of her will. "You're going to fight, and you're going to win." She looked up at him, eyes swimming. "Because I'll kick your ass if you die."

Dean ducked his head and caught her mouth in a soft kiss. "I promise you, I'll fight tooth and nail. Just for you." He smiled as she laughed through her tears.

Kathleen dashed her palms over her eyes, swiping them dry. "Say hi to Bobby for me, huh?"

Dean stepped away from her and nodded, then brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek. "You be careful, okay? I promised you, and you promised me. I'm holding you to it."

Sam cleared his throat as he shuffled up behind them. "We should go. I think this storm is going to get worse before it gets better, which should help us slip out of town."

Gamble moved to Kathleen's side as Sam and Dean slid into the Impala, and he gave a little wave. "You guys be safe, okay?" he called over the rising wail of the wind.

Sam pulled back onto the road, guiding the car toward the highway, and he gave a deep sigh that was part weariness, part relief. Dean was staring out the window, but Sam couldn't see his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, watching as the forms of the ambulance, Gamble, and Kathleen faded away in the gales of snow. "Hey bro?"

"Yeah?" Sam kept his eyes on the road, focused tight and sharp.

"Minnesota sucks."


End file.
